


All Fall Down

by SneakAttack29 (SurreptitiousFox245)



Series: Echoes [1]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition, Elder Scrolls
Genre: Action/Adventure, Angst, Blind Character, Character Death, Cross-Posted on FanFiction.Net, Crossover, Daedra, Daedra Worship, Drama, Extraordinarily Mild Canon-Divergence, F/M, Gen, Implied Relationships, Lore References, M/M, Magic-Users, Major Original Character(s), Michael Kirkbride, Mostly will focus on plot development, Multi, Original Character Death(s), POV Second Person, Past Relationship(s), Plot Twists, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Secondary Plot, Slow Burn, Sorry Not Sorry, Subtle Romance, This is gonna get dark guys, i'm not even sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-24
Updated: 2017-04-14
Packaged: 2018-06-10 08:38:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 21
Words: 113,771
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6948259
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SurreptitiousFox245/pseuds/SneakAttack29
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Aether had collapsed. Mundus was forever warped. Nirn had been desecrated before your very eyes, and Existence left in shambles. Finding yourself displaced after an incident that should have ended your life, you begin to piece together the puzzle linking a Blighted Magister to a crumbling remnant of a world that lay in ruins.</p><p>EDIT: REWRITE OF AFD IS IN PROGRESS!!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, all! I'm new to AO3--my best friend introduced me and I figured I'd give it a shot. I'm going to go ahead and jump right in, but also will say really quickly that yes, AFD is also up on my Fanfiction.net account by the same name. I've also edited the prologue here. My original prologue was...*shudders*.
> 
> Anyway, I know it's short and sweet, but I felt that the old prologue dragged things out...a lot. Hope you guys enjoy!

" _So look in my eyes, what will you leave behind once you've gone? (so precious)_

 _You got what you came for now I think it's time to move on (when will you say)_  
 _But these ghosts come alive like water and wine_  
 _Walk through these streets singing songs and carrying signs,_  
 _To them these streets belong_ "

~Rise Against " _To Them These Streets Belong_ "

* * *

_Prologue: The End of the Beginning_

* * *

 

**_Nirn - 4E 202_ **

* * *

**You couldn't think of much else aside from your failure as you watched the sky fall.** Of all the places for them to have chosen to force you to watch the chaos, the Throat of the World had been eerily appropriate. You could see the cracks of light emerging from the sun like a spider web, darting along in a familiar pattern following where the constellations would have been had it been dark. Midday was a symbol, and it was a good one. It was a reminder, a slap in the face--the god of magic, _their_ god, being held in much higher regard than the god of mortals, undoing His mistake and cleansing a sour taste from Existence. And it served to remind that you'd failed. Nirn was going to  _die_ , if a world ever could, no new one ready to be birthed in its place, and it was as much you fault as it was theirs.

A few spindly hands held your arms and shoulders in iron grips that shoved you to your bruised knees a long time ago. Golden sneers not unlike your own cast amused, if aghast looks at the torn and filthy mismatched set of leather armor you wore, their robes in comparison immaculate despite the hard battle they'd just borne witness to. You'd long since stopped the disparaged staring at the large, draconic bones that were even now half-buried in the snow. Mourning the loss would do you no good at this point. He was already long dead, just you were mournfully late in finding out. 

Falling was actually not an apt description of what the sky was doing-- _dissolving_ actually fit the scenario better, though even it was a bit far from the mark. You couldn't tell if the light that was left behind was comforting or more of a void. It engulfed everything, creeping down to the tip of the mountain and causing stone to roar across stone as matter by its very nature resisted being torn apart in such a manner. You wanted to fight, wanted to scream, but all you could do was shy away from the light as it grew ever nearer until it engulfed you, too.

You were fading, you realized with an absentminded sense of awe that felt detached, when you shouldn't have been fading in the first place. It gave you some hope, then that maybe, just maybe,  _they_ had been wrong. 


	2. Chapter 1

" _I'm stronger now, even after everything that you did._  
 _I'm still alive and kicking._  
 _I'm better now._  
 _I'm awake now._  
 _I can see everything in front of me, now._ "

~Nonpoint " _Alive and Kicking_ "

* * *

Chapter 1

* * *

**_Thedas - 9:30 Dragon_ **

* * *

**The screech of birds** chirping directly in your ear had never sounded so melodic.

Within the inky blankness and minimal consciousness of which you had been awarded, darkness met you. Slowly, you began feeling small things – a feather-light touch skittering across your forearm, a cool moisture tingeing the air shallowly flowing into your lungs. Sounds began entering the forming picture of where you were located – leaves rustling upon bark and other leaves, bullfrogs croaking a mating ballad. A forest, the metallic scent of damp earth and moss clear, but a picture of it never formed. Even upon prying your eyes open, light was not met. Only darkness followed, and that was how you concluded bemusedly that you were blind. The distinct lack of supernatural _knowing_ you had grown accustomed to in the past year denoted that your hindrance went beyond being merely physical.

Disorientation was to be expected. It took several moments for you to realize that you were lying on earthen ground instead of leaning upon a rock or tree as you'd initially thought by the sharp point of a thick root digging into the middle of your back. The, admittedly, somewhat diluted vivaciousness of the birdcalls made you tentatively speculate that it was still at least slightly daylight, the bullfrogs furthering that to probably late afternoon or early evening. Sunset, you wanted to believe. Pushing the panic sprouting from the loss of one of your senses to the back of your mind, you focused instead on what you remembered last.

 _You had sunk to your knees now – pride and propriety be_ damned _, this was the end of the gods' forsaken world as you knew it – and the mountain around you began to crumble, piece by frozen piece._ The scene flashed before your still vivid mind's eye. The deafening roar of stone rolling across stone only to vanish into nothing seconds later, cheers as _they_ accomplished their goal. _Fading_ , you remembered, when you shouldn't have faded at all. Perhaps your sight was recompense for still existing when you should've been _nothing_.

Or, maybe you were enough of _them_ to have been reabsorbed into whatever convoluted afterlife of which they thought they belonged. As humorously stupid as the idea was, you still allowed it to be entertained for a brief moment. Throwing aside that the area didn't have an inkling of the… _purity_ , for lack of a better term, associated with Aetherial magic, the fact of the matter was plainly that you didn't know, and it frightened you. You could no longer See, in more ways than one, and that just drove the imaginary dagger deeper into the gooey, watery flesh of your now useless eye sockets.

"Damn," you breathed, dragging a hand through your hair once the appendage managed to blindly find the top of your head, an old habit mixed with fumbling effort that should not have been there. That frustrated you, too, and you whipped your head up and back against the ground with a _thwack!_ "Ow."

For how long you laid there, trying to decide what to do next, you didn't know. It could've been minutes, hours, or days; without the eternally viable passing of light, you didn't hazard to guess as lost in thought as you were. Eventually though, the sound of a bowstring slowly being pulled semi-taught made you wary enough to heave yourself into what you supposed could pass for a sitting position. As embarrassing as the scrabbling to ensure you didn't hit your head on anything was, you recognized the lack of choice as you pondered the sound you'd heard. It was slight, barely there. Had you not had mer blood in you and the acute hearing that wrought, you never would have registered it at all. The severity of the sound indicated heightened senses. Probably a trade off for your vision, you noted dully. No one ever said the Godhead didn't have a sense of mercy – or humor, as was more likely. It had always seemed to enjoy fiddling with you, and you somehow doubted the current excursion in which you found yourself was something as mundane as an _accidental displacement_. _It_ simply didn't _do_ "accidents".

" _Accidentally-on-purpose_ "…well now, _that_ was certainly more plausible.

A hand sliding to your belt reassured you that at least the glass dagger was still there. The magika thrumming beneath your fingertips, still potent, gave you confidence. "Who's there?" A pause ensued – brief, but lingering enough for it to register as suspicious.

"An elf who speaks in the common _shemlen_ tongue so close to a Dalish camp?" the voice, obviously male yet of a resonating lilt screaming something other than human, tersely scoffed after a moment. "I'd hazard to say you should be ashamed of yourself, but you've the look of no elf, Dalish or otherwise, native to these lands."

You rolled your useless eyes in their sockets, leering them somewhere off towards the left where you tracked the elf to whom the voice presumably belonged and gesturing to them sardonically, "Pardon my bluntness, but how would I know what an ' _elf native to these lands_ ' looks like if I apparently don't look it, myself? Actually, I'm a bit lost. Could you tell me where I am?"

"You," the frown was palpable in the unnamed elf's tone, "are trespassing on the borders of a Dalish camp. I ask you to either state your business here or leave these woods. Your tone suggests you would be more at home with the _shemlen_ in one of the villages, anyway."

Well, _forest_ had only been slightly wrong, then. Barking a laugh, you turned your head skyward for emphasis, "Oh, trespassing! That's rich. Get thrown into…wherever in Oblivion I am, _blind_ , and be rewarded with accusations of _trespassing_ first thing upon arrival. That's rich, really. I give you accolades for utter ridiculousness." You heard light footsteps – lighter than light, actually, but you still heard them – padding their way towards you and reacted. Drawing the dagger, you held the blade tightly with your forearm in front of you defensively, hoping that you were pointing it in at least some semblance of the right direction. A flame cloak spell itched at your subconscious, begging to be cast, but you restrained only for the sneaking suspicion that it was probably not even necessary. There was something oddly comforting about the woods – safe. But where safety lurked, so did darkness; and you felt that distinctly, too. Caution would be used in moderation.

The steps stopped, but the voice spoke up again, "You aim well, at least...for a woman appearing as unseasoned as you do."

You scoffed at that, shrugging and momentarily wondering just where your weapon was pointing, "I'm not even going to _touch_ on how looks can be very deceiving. Moving on, I didn't mean to _trespass_ , honest. One moment I was... _standing_ on a mountain, and the next, I'm waking up here..."

There was a pause, sigh, and eventually the shouldering (or, what you assumed by the slight rustle of cloth to be the shouldering) of a bow, "I should take you to the Keeper, then, if what you speak is true."

"That sounds wonderful!" The sarcasm was heavy, but so was the undertone of relief as you sheathed the dagger with thankfully little trouble and called the magic back to its reserves. "Um…hate to be a bother, but could you help a disoriented elf up? I'm kind of new to the whole _waking up without explanation in a very strange place_ thing…it's a bit dizzying. I haven't quite caught my bearings yet." The jolt of distaste for the pure dependence you felt the moment the slim hand clasped itself around your wrist, still enclosed in the tattered remains of thick leather bracers, was uncomfortable, but you reminded yourself that you didn't have a choice. You were in a place you did not recognize, stripped of your sight, both mundane and farther-reaching, and knew better than to expect anything less than a knife in the back at any given moment. You'd trust these elves (if that's even what they _were_ – meeting one of them and only being able to hear a strange accent only told you so much) merely because there was something telling you should - an intuition, perhaps.

You weren't sure whether or not you should've been unsettled by the fact that you didn't know if it was a side effect from your newfound blindness or another sick-minded gift of pity from _It_. Neither option was too appealing.

"Keeper Marethari is to be respected, outsider," drawled your nameless companion as he led you along across what you recognized by feel and sound as a branch-strewn path, "so mind your words."

You allowed an eyebrow to raise slowly, "Dully noted…uh...do you have a name, by any chance?" There wasn't a response from your escort. Somewhat insulted, you turned your gaze elsewhere (or maybe you turned it upon him, you couldn't tell) in defiance. Defiance of what, you didn't know. You'd figure something out to defy. Seemed to be all you were good for as of late, acts of contempt.

 _Enough to show defiance,_ the memory spun itself, and you fought to keep your gait deceptively smooth, _If all you could further yourself to be for your withering cause was a symbol of hope, a flame, then so be it._ You suddenly felt sick. A symbol was all you had been, if you wished to be generous. You had done nothing. Watched, waited – you failed, and as a result, _so many had lost their very beings_ …

"Pardon?" You snapped your head up (for what good the action did), and it took a few moments for it to sink in that you had been speaking the recalls aloud. And you didn't know why, let alone if it was remotely accurate, but you painted a proverbial mental picture of your companion in that instance. Short (a head shorter than your Altmeri height), lithe, fair haired, _human_ in all but the sharp, slim slope of the bridge of his nose and tipped ears still of a slimmer fashion than the arched ones you sported. Wide eyes bluer than blue shrouded by fine eyebrows sat elegantly on a pale, angular face (in human terms – it was not quite as sharply exotic as your own), one raised higher than the other in what could've passed for a subdued bewilderment.

The image in your mind, you didn't answer right away. In fact, you weren't quite sure if you could've even forced the lie out that was waiting on the tip of your tongue. No, you thought instead treacherously of the lives you had left stranded to their fate. That word, " _fate_ ". It left you tired, exhausted, and angry. _Fate_ had been malleable in your hands until the one moment when it had counted most. Then, your gifts had failed you, been stripped away, and laughed on. _Fate_ had been nothing but a cheap excuse masking the reality that you had been bringing about the inevitable, and it was only a calamity that you had taken so long to realize it.

"Nothing," you managed to whisper finally, staring off in a direction blankly, mind perceiving darkness where you _knew_ there should've been _something_ and hoping that your guide would place your lack of visual contact as being distracted by your thoughts instead of sightlessness. "A memory - just a memory." The image in your mind of what your nameless companion looked like continued to stare with a curiosity burning behind his eyes, before deeming the matter too trifling to deal with and turned away to watch the path ahead. And his disregard was fine, you told yourself. It was absolutely fine.

* * *

 **You knew it before** you set foot in this Dalish camp and could only _listen_ to its unfamiliar, foreign clamoring that the occasion would mark the first of many times you'd wish for your sight back, so you filed the feeling away for future reference on how to subdue it. There were the sounds of nature as you had felt before when you first woke, but somehow they seemed purer the farther you were led towards the center of the elvish establishment. Sparking of life fiercely celebrated, yet as potently revered and protected, danced wildly across your tongue with every breath you drew through lips parted in respectful awe. It filled your lungs with a confident security that almost made you momentarily forget your lost vision. Songs so beautiful they were terrible rang out intermittently, broken only by the distance put between their weaver and her mobile audience. The music spoke wordlessly and yet seamlessly of love, laughter, tears, and sorrow, among other things that had you wondering not for the first time if you really were not within the blissful, illusory confines of the Aetherial Dreamsleeve your kind had once so easily damned.

Ironically, it was the very loss of the one sensory input you so wished to have in inclusion that kept you attached so thoroughly to reality. You could feel the desire for it tugging harshly at your mind and soul, begging for you to circumvent the barriers and obstacles, something you consciously knew to be impossible in any event, to obtain the once-held power you also knew could give you what you yearned for so. Thankfully, logic kept you sane from the temptation; your reluctant, but no less chivalrous, guide kept your pride solid by unknowingly guiding you around physical obstacles; and your blindness kept you so, so, _so_ blissfully grounded to the reality it could also easily lure you from.

" _Aneth ara,_ Fenarel," a voice called out softly from the bustle of life surrounding the "camp". You could clearly hear the trepidation within the feminine lilt and instantly knew it was because of your presence. All of a sudden, the singing and merriment stopped in allowance for a sharp, pungent stench of fear, anger, and uncertainty to settle darkly over the camp, unexplained and utterly virulent.

A nod presumably came from your escort, if the rustling sound stood for anything, " _Andaran atish'an,_ Merrill. Do you know where the Keeper is, by chance?" Your guide, Fenarel's, voice seemed almost stiff, a little _too_ polite when compared to the other elf, Merrill's, friendliness. Immediately, you tensed. Even though you didn't trust this Fenarel, his response to the female elf was a bit too on-edge for it to just be a general dislike. There was also an aura, though more of a suggestion than anything else, about her that you could feel even from where you stood presumably several feet away. It was magical, but it was tinged ever so slightly with darkness, desperation, _pride_. Danger, you realized - a threat in the making, something everyone around you seemed to also easily recognize and were quick to despise with every fiber of their collective being. It was unsettling.

To be honest, it reminded you of the lingering touch you tended to feel on someone fresh from visiting a Daedric shrine...and _not_ one of the more harmless of the Padomaic entities, either. It seemed akin to as if the soft-spoken girl had been near the shrine to Molag Bal in Markarth or within the confines of the fort housing Vaermina's artifact, Nightcaller Temple, overlooking Dawnstar. It was an essence of one fresh from the mountain-lifted altar protected by the ever-vigilant, four-armed statue of Mehrunes Dagon in all of his terrible, shameful glory. It was akin, but ever-so-slightly _different_ , and something tugged at your mind to recognize that dissimilarity as the most significant aspect to the whole conundrum pertaining as to just where you were. It was not Daedric magic saturating the elf, running, shining powerfully through her veins and permeating the very soil upon which she stood, reaching tentative tendrils of potent, intangible flame out to touch the magika in your own blood, teasing, testing it, testing _you_. No, it wasn't quite _chaotic_ enough to be Daedric. It felt closer to _Aedric_ , but it wasn't even truly the orderly, hard-to-touch form of power, either. The one thing you were sure about, though, was that it was slowly, so _agonizingly_ _slowly_ , being diseased by something you couldn't place, and it actually frightened you.

There was a stranglehold on the poor girl that threatened to overtake her, and it made you almost understand the seemingly unwarranted wariness of the others around you.

"She is with Ashalle," Merrill fretted, seemingly oblivious of the hostile atmosphere directed towards her, or perhaps she was just very good at ignoring it, "discussing something about M-Mahariel. Why do you need her? Is it about who you have with you? She seems rather strange to be Dalish. Is she from one of the cities? Oh, I've heard stories about the elves that live with the _shemlen_. Are any of them true?" Her soft voice broke at the utterance of the second name, though she continued to babble on almost endearingly. The already thick atmosphere seemed to dampen yet further with depression, and logic told you " _Mahariel_ " was a touchy subject. A part of you wondered if Merrill had been the cause of whatever made the name so poisonous. It certainly explained why her own people seemed to hate her so much.

Fenarel's response wasn't just chilled; it was downright _cold_ , and you frowned. Surely, whatever Merrill did was not cause for such unwarranted frigidity for asking a simple inquiry, regardless of the severity carried by whatever previous acts that caused the rest of the people around you to fear her so much. "Perhaps - I hardly see where it is _your_ concern."

" _Lethallin_ , you don't mean that," said the girl confusedly - she'd been oblivious to the negative attention, then, "as the Keeper's First it's my responsibility to -"

The poor girl was cut off quickly, "You're _lucky_ the Keeper decided to allow you to stay with the Clan, and that is _all_. What you're planning on doing...it can't end well, Merrill, and you're disregard for everything the Keeper taught you, every respect she and the Clan paid you as her First, will be the downfall of us all _if you don't stop_." There was a whimper of a tone that told you it came from Merrill, and you snapped. You shuffled a step ahead, drawing yourself directly next to Fenarel instead of slightly behind and to his left as you had been, opening your mouth to fire off some comment that would probably get you cast out of the (begrudgingly) welcoming group of honest-to-Trinimac _civilized_ people as quickly as your life had been spared. It wasn't your place among these strangers to tell them what you thought of their ways (if what they were doing to the girl even was along such lines), but you also knew that you couldn't just stand by and watch when you could've yet done _something_...

... _enough to show that maybe – just_ maybe _– all was not as lost as it seemed in those last few seconds where_ someone _could yet do_ something...

_Stone roaring across stone as the mountain around you began to crumble..._

_...when you had done nothing but stand and_ watch _._

A gasp tearing itself from your throat drew the attention from Merrill to you, and you welcomed it, if you were to be honest with yourself. The memory finished playing once you stuffed it unceremoniously back into the recesses of your mind, though unfortunately not without bringing the soul-crushing _guilt_ with it that was becoming clearer and clearer still you had no hope of ever avoiding. At least, no hope of avoiding in entirety - if scattered moments of peace from the self-revile were all you would be able to manage for the rest of your pitiful existence then scattered moments you would take. _It was better than nothi -_

NO. You wouldn't - you _couldn't_...!

"Are you alright, child?" The voice was new, soothing, yet rougher-sounding and speaking of an age greater than those around you. But first and foremost, it was _unfamiliar_ , and you reacted, drawing your dagger and spinning around wildly, untamed in both panic and instinct. You settled somewhere to your left, weapon held firmly and one of its sharp, decorated glass edges not quite touching the skin of a thin neck you in some way just _knew_ to be there. What came next was almost expected. Blades singing their deadly warning as they were swiftly sprung from their sheathes and bows drumming a countdown as arrow upon arrow was knocked, drawn, and pointed almost assuredly at your head. Your heart was clobbering around wildly in your chest, a rabid climber desperately trying to find a foothold on a smooth cliff face. It was warranted no such luxury and continued its race, causing you to feel dizzy and even more disoriented than before as the fright really began to grasp at you tightly.

Without your sight, it took you a bit longer than it normally would have to remember where you were. You took the slightest bit of familiarity you felt from the area around you, the presences of Fenarel and Merrill, memories of the terse conversation before, and latched onto them. Hanging from those shredded threads, you pushed your way past the instinctual reaction to _defend yourself_ against something you couldn't see, and unclenched the fist holding the dagger quicker than one could say " _disarm_ ". A clattering sound rose up, along with the alarming smell of dirt becoming ever-so-slightly stronger where the ground was disturbed, and you sucked in a shaky, welcome breath in an attempt to calm your fluttering heart. The recession of your adrenaline rush left you with subtle tremors that you willed yourself to ignore with practiced ease. It wasn't the first time you'd had to run on fear, and while you handled the crash well through experience, that didn't mean you had to like it.

" _Mara's mercy_ ," you breathed once your hand lowered itself back to your side, hoping that showing you didn't intend to make a move for your dropped dagger could somehow soothe the bristled fur of the clansmen, "I apologize for that. Did I hurt you?"

The aged voice almost held a chuckle to it, "I am unharmed. I could ask the same of you. You were unresponsive for several minutes."

Oh.

"I'm fine," you frowned. It had felt like it had only been a couple of _seconds_..."Just a...bad memory...I do apologize, again. I didn't hear you coming and just... _reacted_."

"I walked up in front of you, child. You would've seen me."

"I was lost in thought. I _didn't_ see you."

There was a long, thoughtful pause. By the time the old woman's voice spoke again, you were close to fidgeting, "You are blind." It was a statement, not a question. Your eyes flickered around uselessly in your nervousness, as if itching to prove the point you had tried so futilely to hide with their new nature of being perpetually unfocused. Then again, with being so new to sightlessness, you hadn't any experience with even functioning with such a disability, much less functioning flawlessly. It really had never been a question of _if_ someone would find out; it was more a question of _when_.

"Astute of you to realize...," you admitted unhappily.

"Keeper!" a voice from the crowd suddenly crowed in sputtering disbelief. So the woman was Marethari, then... "You can't honestly believe that she cannot see! She was a hair's breath away from slicing your neck!"

The pause that ensued spoke of nothing less than a horrifyingly stern look that made your own skin crawl as if it was directed at you, "I am quite sure, Ashalle. Just because you question my decisions ever since the incident with the Eluvian does not mean the sincerity I place behind them has wavered with your trust." That shut the woman who had spoken up rather quickly. You shifted on your feet awkwardly, having settled from your earlier panic attack as much as you supposed the situation would allow you to.

Coughing lightly in an attempt to vanquish your nervousness, you managed to stammer, "I, uh...I don't wish to be a bother. If you just point me to the nearest city, I can be out of your hair..." Hopefully, figures of speech carried over to...wherever you were...

"Nonsense," the grizzled voice of this Keeper woman warbled soothingly, "you are injured. The least we can do is aid you with your wounds and help you recover your bearings." Murmurs rose, mostly hostile, at the declaration. After Marethari's swift dismissal of Ashalle's protests, however, no one dared speak in more than a conspiratorial whisper that you couldn't help but overhear. Most of the words were hissed in an elegant, foreign tongue you thought mildly similar to Altmeris, but the almost reprimanding tones were hard to miss.

It was quickly giving you a headache...and an earache, come to think of it...

...wait...

"Injured...?" Your brows pinched together, brain only then registering the tingling ache of your burned wrists from the shackles you'd almost completely forgotten about. A cracked and bleeding rope burn along the left side of your neck was also beginning to make itself known from where the hemp _leash_ had been yanked against too harshly, and you cringed as the iron scent of your blood finally registered through the cacophony of sensory overload you had only barely managed to begin sifting through.

Damn the Divines; damn the Godhead; damn the Aldmer; and damn the bloody Thalmor.

The thick silence shook you out of your thoughts, and you swore you could feel Marethari and the rest of the gathered elves staring at you expectantly. You could stay and allow the people you didn't fully trust or understand to help you. After all, you were in a strange place and suddenly blind. Truth be told, you were half expecting to wake up at any moment and find that everything was just another fever-fueled dream, or realize it was an illusion placed upon you in order to get you to spill the secrets muddled within your mind that were so desperately coveted by your enemy. In that case, what was the harm in staying if it wasn't real?

On the other hand, if it wasn't a dream or the woven trickery of magic, how long could this new world, a shining gem of hope you hadn't let yourself feel in what felt like an eternity, last? Practically, if you had made it there after the dissolution of Nirn, you couldn't have been the only one. Your fears were merely caution if these potential others were not Thalmor; they were more than understatements if they indeed belonged to the Altmer-driven faction. If that was true, every moment you remained with the elves was another moment damning them to the fate you had narrowly escaped yourself. Maybe it had been luck, but you wouldn't let what happened to Nirn happen again. You couldn't.

But by the Gods, _you were bloody blind_...

"I...," you frowned apprehensively, "I suppose I don't really have another option, thank you..."

A warm hand gently clasped your bared right shoulder where the pauldron had been ripped away, and the impression conjured by your mind of a slim, grey-haired, elderly woman with a face decorated in intricate, swirling yellow lines smiled at you gently through thin lips and wide, kindly green eyes. The robes she wore were elegant and feathered, denoting rank, but the well-loved air evoked by frayed hemlines and the occasional mended tear also gave them, and their wearer, the respect demanded of age. Power also radiated off of her, you noted. It was much like what seeped from meek Merrill's bones, though without the oily shadow of the malicious sabre cat threatening to engulf it in despair. In fact, Marethari's power felt refreshing, if unfamiliar.

Marethari hummed as she led you gently away, dismissing the gathered crowd, Fenarel and Merrill included, "I do not believe we have had the luxury of a proper greeting. I am Keeper Marethari, though I suspect you gathered such." You managed a nod as the hand on your shoulder shifted. The image of Marethari faded from your mind, your concentration broken enough for your imagination to fade with the rise of conversation.

"Lys...my name is Lys." It wasn't the whole truth, you supposed, but it wasn't a lie. You weren't sure who to trust in earnest, and Lys was a nickname you often went by anyway.

She seemed almost taken aback for a moment, "What of your surname, child?" You didn't answer immediately. You just shook your head, gnawed on your chapped lower lip for a moment, and stared blankly ahead.

Floundering briefly, you finally sucked in a breath and answered sheepishly, "...Ralvayn." Sure, it didn't sound pretty...but it was appropriate. What was the use of your old name here? If others did follow you, it only made you more of a target. And it wasn't like _she_ needed it anymore.

Yes, _Ralvayn_ would do quite nicely...


	3. Chapter 2

" _When everything is wrong and nothing feels right,_  
 _and everyone has left,_  
 _no one said goodbye -_  
 _the days seem so lonely, and I've never been this scared._  
 _And you were so strong..._  
 _you touched with no hands._

 _And all the days that we missed,_  
 _gonna find where they've been._  
 _I don't care if you love me, just say that I win._  
 _And I'll try harder this time when I know that I'm right._  
 _You hung up the phone the night that God saved my life._  
 _And every new beginning comes from some other's end._  
 _This four letter word,_  
 _it's all I have left._  
 _It's all I have._ "

~One Less Reason " _Four Letter Words_ "

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_**Chapter 2** _

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**_~Nirn - 4E 201~_ **

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**Believe it or not,** you had always been a rather unremarkable elf before the whole fiasco with the Thalmor. Worse still, you'd been _penniless_ and unremarkable, and if you were honest, the penniless part stubbornly clung to you straight through to the end up on that damned mountain. Sure, you had a decent enough grasp of hunting and foraging. You'd had to survive _somehow_ , and the forests along Cyrodiil's northeastern border were not as unforgiving as they appeared at first glance. The deceptive tranquility of Lake Arrius glinting under the twin moonlight had fooled you into security before, so you had mastered the art of constantly being alert as well. Magic, though a strong suit, had been considerably muddled by your being Altmeri. Considered to have an unnatural grasp of the arcane arts anyway by the other races and honestly being mediocre in the schools to your own rendered what could've set you apart by leaps and bounds to be categorized by that stupid little word you'd learned over time to be synonymous with _survival_.

In any other situation, you supposed it would be somewhat sad. Not in yours, though. A life of wandering and, when called for, poaching, as well as being a solitary female made you realize quickly that attention was the last thing you wanted to draw. Bandits, the errant escaped criminal, soldiers, guards, vigilantes, thieves - the list never truly ended, and you'd conditioned yourself to lay low from all. Fame and infamy never played out in your favor, either, so you kept as best you could to the wide unpopulated spaces of dense forests and barren grasslands. Recognition, acknowledgement, or what have you were always more troublesome than not.

You had been raised an orphan. Wherever your parents happened to be, or whoever they once were, had never been an answer able to be given. Your recovery was perhaps the most interesting aspect of you, truth be told. You'd been found, as the Acolyte who had primarily cared for you, Undilar, often liked to repeat, by a patrolling guardsman only a half hour east of Kvatch on the Gold Road. You had been nothing more than a hungry bundle screeching from amidst a tangle of flowers and weeds, tossed to the side of the road as if something to be ashamed of. It had only been several years after the Great War, and while not entirely a welcome presence, the Aldmeri Dominion had steady claim over the region. An abandoned, healthy child of High Elf blood was an oddity, but also considered a tentative commodity. Though selective when it came to breeding, Altmer children of unknown parentage were considered assets so long as they proved skilled enough. One had to be on par with the fabled Aldmer race to be considered a productive member of Altmeri society and accepted within the Dominion. It could be said that one had to be _remarkable_.

As you grew within the temple to Auri-el, once dedicated to Akatosh prior to Altmer occupation, you proved to be anything but noteworthy. Your magic was decent, but at a common level amongst your peers - it was nothing worth giving a second glance. Your scholarly pursuits were admittedly lackadaisical in retrospect to what the Acolytes had attempted to teach you. The reigning Thalmor Emissary over the area, a stuffy, oily old man by the name of Anariil, had shown a particular frown of distaste when scouting for potential recruits to the over-glorified supremacist faction. Even as a child and being fed a steady stream of beliefs negative towards humans, other mer, and the beast races, you had never really believed in the harsh treatment and instead found a shimmering fascination on the subject. Something about having these negative views shoved on you and having never had contact with the races in question sparked your natural curiosity to find out exactly _why_ they were held in the first place. That view had only been strengthened as you entered your teenage years.

So when the slippery, gray haired Altmer had stared down his beak-like nose at _you_ out of twenty or so other orphaned children with a knee-buckling gaze and asked why the Empire had surrendered to the Dominion in the war, you'd very innocently answered, "Because the Dominion was being an ass and didn't give them a choice...or a chance."

Needless to say, that answer hadn't gone over well. Not that any answer straying even remotely from bathing the Dominion in gilded righteousness and the Empire as mewling worms writhing in inferiority _would've_ , in retrospect. The Emissary had gone a shade of angry red, mixing with the natural yellow tone of his gilt skin to create an amusingly vibrant orange that looked rather out of place with his dull yellow eyes and lank, cinereal hair. The Acolytes around the room had gasped in shock, growing pale and flustered while stammering abhorred apologies that one of their students had even dared give such a scandalous answer in blunt and vulgar terms. You could've sworn that one of the elder females had fainted where she was seated in the back of the room. Had you more brains at the tender age of fifteen, you might have just kept yourself silent for the duration of the inevitable tongue-lashing.

No, instead you'd giggled at the spectacle the man was making of himself.

Correction - you'd giggled _uncontrollably_.

The following morning, you had been predictably kicked out of the temple and left to fend for yourself. Such disrespect towards a figure of power was not to be tolerated under any circumstances, by anyone, and the message had been made resoundingly clear with your excommunication. Undilar, a middle-aged mer with questionable mousey colored hair always secured in the topknot typical of a servant of Auri-el, had expectedly been the only one to see you off. He'd seemed solemn as his thin, bony hands - scholar's hands that had fed, clothed, and taught you - conspiratorially handed you a small bundle of provisions. It wasn't much, barely enough to survive a few days comfortably. You remember an eyebrow rising at that. Smuggled food, was it? Still, the sentiment had touched you.

You had kept the cloth that had bound the bread, apples, and potions for some time, actually.

With a roguish grin to hide your apprehension, you promised to a disheartened face you wouldn't get into too much trouble. Sans a childish look of amusement towards Anariil when you passed him on the road you couldn't resist and the ensuing, angered chase, it was a relatively easy promise for you to keep considering your humdrum nature for the next seven years. Learning to survive had been rather solitary, with a string of days here and there broken up by a hunter requiring aid tracking big game or an alchemist searching for herbs that had taken pity on your lack of ability and taught you a few essentials before moving on. It was mundane, but it was comfortable - liberating, even, from the temple's expectant structure, if one wished to go so far.

At least, it had been up until the chilly autumnal day you found yourself a little farther north of your usual hunting grounds than you'd intended. The quickly settling chill had warned you of a harsh winter to come, and so you had decided that the risks of going farther north to hunt more were worth it over potentially starving _and_ freezing to death. Walking into an ambush hadn't been on your "to-do" list that Morndas, but you had to give credit to the Imperials who had done the ambushing - it was skillfully and _silently_ carried out. You'd been knocked out, loaded onto a wagon with three other Nords, and carted north towards what would probably be your execution.

Initially, you hadn't been frightened - just curious. Due to your time in the woods around Cheydinhal, you had had your fair share of encounters with humans, and the ravenous childhood yearning for knowledge had stemmed to a dull thirst. And you had come to accept your death as inevitable anyway the minute you had taken to your nomadic lifestyle. Only a hardheaded fool would believe themselves invincible enough to survive such dangers forever, and a hardheaded fool you were not. You just had never pictured it would end with you as a falsely accused war prisoner.

Upon waking, the more chatty man across from you had managed to fill you in on the details. Secluded as you had been, you hadn't a clue that there had been a rebellion brewing against the Empire in Skyrim until it had almost literally fallen on top of you. The man, stocky and blond, obviously a warrior, and answering to the name of Ralof was a soldier in the rebellion. The man next to you, brunette, oddly gagged, and dressed in fine, if not slightly dusty, furs was none other than Ulfric Stormcloak, said rebellion's leader. The sniveling, cowardly fool adjacent to you was another unfortunate bystander to the whole thing, a horse thief named Lokir who had, like yourself, been in the wrong place at the wrong time.

It was several nights later, a day from the hamlet you'd learned to be your destination that you managed to slip out unnoticed. The soldiers had made camp, and after a failed attempt by a handful of unmarked Nordic soldiers at liberating the imprisoned rebels, you'd been separated from the rest as each of you was questioned individually. That had been the Legionnaires' first mistake. The second had been leaning you against a tree while they attempted to figure out who had organized the attack. Severing the thick leather bonds hadn't exactly been easy, but with the cover provided by feigning sleep and a nimbleness acquired from years hunting game partial to tight crevices, you had managed and slipped off into the frigid wilderness before the Imperials had been any the wiser.

They had taken the patchwork armor of mildly tanned hides and furs and left you in thin roughspun clothing that did little to protect against Skyrim's native chill. Your second-rate bow, arrows, and daggers had also been confiscated, leaving you to rely on your magic for both defense and warmth if you wished to survive in an environment even harsher than what you were used to. Somehow you'd managed, sticking to roads and looting from a few bandits stupid enough to cross your path. The fur armor you'd taken from one hadn't been as tailored as your own had been, but was certainly warmer than the tattered clothing you'd been forced into. The plain longbow and handful of shoddy iron arrows you'd also managed to salvage provided you with a more reliable means to hunt, but as you'd stumbled across Morthal and had to be helped to the town's wizard to be treated for frostbite and magika exhaustion, you rationalized that perhaps returning to your nomadic lifestyle was not the best choice. At least it wasn't a good one until you could either get used to the cold or procure better, thicker armor and more potent restoration potions.

Alas, the decision whether or not to stay hadn't rested with you in the end, so your three days spent pondering the decision at the inn and the coin spent there had really been useless. A tall, stocky Nord man in a plain brown tunic had approached you, claiming to be the Jarl's steward. He'd seemed kind enough, if a bit haggard. What you'd heard about the civil war made the exhaustion brewing in his eyes entirely understandable - it hadn't been easy on anyone in the province. They were damned for supporting the Imperials, and cursed if they backed the Stormcloaks. And the situation in Whiterun was quickly showing that neutrality wouldn't get anyone anywhere, either.

You'd followed Aslfur out of civility when he'd mentioned that Jarl Idgrod wished an audience with you. Morthal wasn't a particularly large town, even though it was a Hold capital. In actuality, it was more a village than a proper city, and you were an anonymous newcomer of a race the people in Skyrim were understandably wary of to begin with. You'd expected the Jarl would want to question you at some point and so far hadn't been disappointed, until the grizzled old woman had looked you point blank in the eye first thing and, without preamble, asked you if you would like a job.

It had been a shock, certainly. You were left standing in the blissful warmth of the longhouse, dripping from the freezing rain drumming away outside and gaping like a fish for several moments before you managed to gather yourself and ask just what this " _job_ " would entail. You were still healing from the frostbite, though Falion's spells and poultices had helped considerably. You weren't in a condition to be fulfilling bounties or any of the requests to take care of bandits or other nuisances this Jarl could possible conjure. There was something about the woman that had put you on edge, a tingle of _knowing_ behind her dark squinted eyes that was disquieting. Like she could bore into your soul and poke around every little embarrassing secret you had stuffed away. Skeletons laid bare for judgment to be passed.

A stiff moment of silence trudged along before the old woman's lips twitched up into a smirk of victory, as if she'd found what she'd been looking for, and your heart dropped into your stomach, "The war is creeping up on our borders. My _husband_ believes I would benefit from an advisor of a sharp mind and versed in the arcane. From what Falion has told me, you are both. I am hereby offering the position to you." The word " _husband_ " had been emphasized by an amused pause, as if to convey that the word did not indicate the person it was supposed to. Somehow, you hadn't been able to help mentally replacing it with " _I_ ". A chill raced down your spine unbidden. And " _versed in the arcane_ "? By Falion? You sourly recalled the hooded Imperial snidely railing at your inability to use a flame spell to evenly distribute heat. Your protests that Destruction magic had never been your strongest school had fallen on selectively deaf ears.

"Am I able to refuse?" Your tone was tentative, but dry. You already knew the answer. No vocalization was needed as the smirk reappeared, followed by a slow, lazy blink as if to convey the words, " _Look at your position - what do you think?_ " Two guards were standing stoically at the doors, three placed disproportionately, yet tactfully, around the room (escape should you decide to run was all but impossible), and a Legionnaire hovered in the doorway to the left all but giving you a death glare. He obviously knew who you were and what you'd escaped. From his angry stance, he had been ready to arrest you. It was then you realized the Jarl was trying to keep you from recapture by making you a servant bound to her household, though you couldn't fathom why. It was probably more complicated than your proverbial pay grade. Your sigh was melancholy.

Bowing your head in respect you weren't quite sure you really felt, you acquiesced gracefully, "I am humbled, my Jarl, and accept." Though there had been many teachings from the temple that you had easily discarded, the etiquette had been a habit you had never quite been able to shake. Polite as you were being, though, you certainly didn't have to like the situation you now found yourself in.

Still, as you slowly raised your head and eyed your new advisee, you couldn't repress the shiver at the spark quickly and alarmingly becoming familiar. You felt the urge to bolt as the hair on the back of your neck stood on end and another shiver wracked your frame. Ground held dutifully, your teeth grit themselves together. You recognized the favor being given, but you somehow felt that while it was advisor-advisee officially, the roles were going to be reversed in practice. Because as you glowered against a cool scrutiny, you had a feeling that Idgrod Ravencrone knew more than she was letting on. And you also had an inkling that the knowledge had far too much to do with you than you cared for.

* * *

**_~Thedas - 9:30 Dragon~_ **

* * *

**You noted that you were by a fire**. The roaring warmth engulfed you, and it wasn't until you were nestled comfortably next to the flames that you realized you'd even been chilled at all. It was appropriate. You'd been on top of a mountain before waking, clad in tattered armor atop an even more rugged, threadbare tunic and trousers you'd scrounged up from...somewhere. The exact specifics of where you'd salvaged the cloth and hide eluded you, lost in the rushed fog of a war waged perhaps too late. It was all piecemeal, you were sure; remnants from darting cross-continent - fort to sanctuary to village, just trying to stay alive. How exactly had you gone from a Jarl's advisor to skulking about and coveting half-decayed, albeit usable, armor as if it were gold? As you sat there comfortably nursing a bowl of mercifully savory, gamey stew (probably rabbit), you figured it didn't matter any longer. What was done was done and you couldn't change it.

The warmth reminded you of the day you'd been offered the job, however. Truth be told, it wasn't much different. Outside instead of in a longhouse, gently chilled instead of frozen and frostbitten - you were sightless this time. There was still a...perhaps not _grizzled_ , per se, but there was an experienced elder across from you with a proposition, power draped languidly across her shoulders as if a cloak and knowledge burning her eyes. The nature of the knowledge may have been different, but knowledge was still power regardless of make. The conditions were even vaguely similar - stay, join the clan of elves and work comfortably to grow accustomed to your new disadvantage (blindness instead of susceptibility to cold), or leave and fend for yourself in the elements, in a land foreign to you. And once more, it sounded as though you were not being given much of a choice to begin with.

You spooned another chunk of tender, gravy-covered meat onto your tongue, sucking and gnawing on it to prolong the thoughtful silence that had fallen. Though you couldn't see Marethari, you could feel her gaze piercing you expectantly. She wanted a story you were reluctant to share. It sounded outlandish as it was, but while you trusted her and the Dalish to some extent, you didn't trust them with the truth. At least not yet.

Swallowing your delaying morsel of stew, you waved the hand holding the wooden spoon around for emphasis, "I think you already know my answer, Keeper. I don't know where I am or how I came to be here. I woke up _blind,_ for Arkay's sake. Staying with the Sabrae clan is the most logical course of action, and I thank your hospitality for graciously suggesting and allowing that I stay." Marethari seemed to smile gently at that, though without visual confirmation, you couldn't begin to tell for certain.

"It is no trouble, child," she brushed the matter off as if the clan accepted outsiders every day of the week and twice on Sundas. "Two of our own passed away recently, Dread Wolf never find them. As much as I would like my generosity to be plain, we require someone to aid in picking up the slack they left."

"I can't promise I'll be the most useful, but I will try to help where I am able," you shrugged, scraping the spoon along the wooden bottom of the bowl in your lap in search of any extra broth once you realized you'd emptied it.

Marethari's nod shifted the air, "I mean to speak with you on the subject. Even blind, your reflexes are impressive. One would think you could see perfectly well, if perhaps they didn't focus on your eyes. Were you a warrior before coming here?" She was testing the waters, trying to ascertain which subjects about your past were safe to broach and which were not.

You grinned in a way you hoped reassured the clan leader that you were not offended by the inquiry, "I am an orphan. I was raised at a temple until I was fifteen. Then I was left to fend for myself - learning to hunt and move swiftly and accurately became necessity. I'm good with a dagger, sure, but I prefer using a bow when I can...well...preferred. I don't think I'd be much use with one now."

"Speaking of," your companion started as cool metal was pressed into your left hand, unoccupied since you finished your meal, "your dagger was retrieved. I had our craftsmaster sharpen it. It is of an unusual make. I've never seen glass tempered in such an effective manner, and neither has Ilen." Your spine stiffened slightly, but you tried to play it off as trying to pop the stiffness out of the joints perhaps a moment too late. How to explain, how to explain...

Regardless, you sheathed the weapon gratefully, "Thank you. I believe I found it in an abandoned fortress some time ago...or...was it a cave? Pardon me, I can't quite remember."

"If you don't wish to speak of it, child, all you have to do is say." The observation was harmless, but it told you enough. Marethari had noticed the ice woven into the last sentence, then.

You scoffed lightly, eyes rolling uselessly in habit. "Alright, alright. You don't have to worry the feathers off your coat, Keeper." As always, irritation loosed your tongue quite horribly. Somewhere in the back of your mind, you registered being taken aback by your suddenly casual tone with someone not only obviously ranks above you, but who had also showed you kindness when she very well could've left you to rot. You ignored it. Sometimes politeness got you nowhere.

However, you began kicking yourself once more when the woman spoke almost apprehensively, "You know my robes are feathered, child?"

"Uh...no?" Voice wavering of its own accord, you started trying to put the pieces together in whatever way they could be smashed to fit. Had you actually seen an image of Marethari and Fenarel, or had you just happened to get the feathered part right? Past events had taught you never to believe in coincidences, but if you had, then _why_? What had caused it? You'd been stripped of Sight, hadn't you?

"Don't lie to me," the words held no scorn, only absentminded, if not a little grim, awe. "How? You haven't even so much as touched them and no one murmured it."

You shifted awkwardly again, feeling like a scolded child, "I...I had an image flash into my head when you were leading me away... It was an older woman. An elf, though she looked more human than I do. White hair pulled back into a bun, green eyes, yellow tattoos on her face, and a well-worn coat with dark feathers on the shoulders...please don't tell me that I just described you..." You felt like cringing when there was a grim response telling you that you had.

The gaze was boring into you, "Has this happened any other time before or since? If so, what were you doing when it happened?"

"With Fenarel. When he helped me up..."

Marethari paused for a moment, "He touched your hand?"

You nodded, holding up the offending right appendage, "My wrist, actually."

"Where the armor is frayed?"

"Yes."

Another thoughtful, pregnant silence swelled, filled only by the crackling of burning sticks from the blaze to your left. Where the Keeper was silent, your mind was racing. Your wrist and your shoulder...what could it mean? Did you really have your sight back for a moment? If so, then...your heart leaped. No. Best not get your hopes up only to have them dashed, but if there was even the slightest possibility...

Suddenly, a warm, slim hand engulfed your own and unwound the bandages you had clumsily insisted on wrapping over the tender electricity burns. You hissed momentarily at the sting of cloth being ripped away from frail flesh, but the pain was only at the forefront of your mind for a moment. By the thick leather of the bracer still attached to your left wrist, your bared hand was eased to touch the dry dirt beneath the thick log you were sitting upon. Your eyes went wide as saucers.

"Kynareth..."

Colors of awe flooded your mind, sensations, sounds, music, essences of life and energy. Pictures danced restlessly before you, their mere presence sweeter than any of the honeyed meads you'd enjoyed back in Skyrim. You were floored, completely astounded and for once, you didn't much care for who saw the perfect rendition of a fish your jaw was doing. Propriety be damned - you were witnessing a _miracle_. And it was all for one simple reason that really wasn't so simple at all.

You could see. For the first time since your world had been upended, you could see _everything_.


	4. Chapter 3

_“In the end, only we can guard ourselves against our obsessions. Only we can decide whether the road we walk carries too high a toll.”_

_~ Arno Dorian “Assassin’s Creed: Unity”_

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**_~Thedas – 9:34 Dragon~_ **

* * *

 

 **You glowered down at the mug of ale clenched in your hands fruitlessly**. Around you, the bawdy sounds of a tavern song accompanied by boisterous chatter of said tavern’s patrons echoed joyfully, but the utter elation of the late evening crowd was the polar opposite of the sour mood in which you were currently immersed. You had been waiting at the small table for over three hours for your contact to show, and there had been not even a sign of the man since he was supposed to have arrived. To say you were frustrated would have been an understatement.

                You would remain patient, however. Patience was a trait that you had quickly learned in your line of work was quite coveted, and keeping a level head had helped you out more often than not. You reached a slim hand swathed in a black leather glove up to shift the ironbark mask affixed to your face, a nervous habit you had developed since you had taken to wearing the thing. You hadn’t become such a successful information broker by losing your temper.

                A small, emotionless smile crept up on your hidden face as your hand dropped back down to rest upon the table. Becoming a trader of information hadn’t been intended, but you couldn’t deny that you liked the path you had accidentally carved for yourself. In retrospect, it made perfect sense. All while you had been… _recuperating_ among the hospitality of the Sabrae clan, you had been itching to not only learn more about the world you found yourself in, but of how you had come to be there in the first place. Marethari only had so many books and scrolls and oral traditions to pass down, and even then, most of those were simply cultural stories. In fact, it had been the Keeper who had planted the idea of leaving the clan into your head. You hadn’t liked it at first. How would you blend in? Your distinctly Altmeri face obviously stood out in a crowd, and you and Marethari couldn’t fathom a Chantry or Circle allowing you, some mysterious stranger, access to their libraries and records.

                That was where the mask had come in. After figuring out that you acquired a very limited field of vision based on skin contact, the first thing that had been done had been a test to see if the “pseudo-vision”, as you had taken to calling it, worked if your eyes were blocked. When the results had been positive, you had quickly decided that wearing a mask to obstruct your face was the best idea. You’d sneak around if you had to – after all, you had never had problems skulking about where you didn’t really belong. The mask was merely a precaution on the unavoidable occasions where you were glimpsed.

                Throughout the year that you had remained with the clan, you had taken to the craftsman who had repaired your daggers, Ilen. While you hadn’t a talent for making weapons, armor, and other various trinkets like the older Dalish, the two of you had found a sort of kindred spirit in the nature of exchanging various stories and tales while he worked. When Marethari wasn’t available to do so, Ilen would teach you various aspects of Dalish culture, and in return, you would regale him with muted stories of some of your more mellow escapades in Skyrim. One of the ones you had told him, despite your better judgment, had been about your accidental run-in with a Dragon Priest while scouring an old Nordic ruin for Jarl Idgrod. You hadn’t thought much of his questioning about the resurrected priest’s mask until you were presented with what felt to be a nearly exact Ironbark replica of the thing the morning you were to depart the Clan for the nearby city of Kirkwall.

                You had been touched by the sentiment behind the gift, as well as gracious. It was sturdy, much less likely to slip from your face than the winding cloths you had originally intended to use. You allowed yourself to sit, gather information, and begin the start of your budding “business”, for lack of a better term, (you had discovered quite quickly that the useless bits of information you gathered while searching for your own answers were often very valuable to other people) for a few months in Kirkwall before quickly moving on, but the damage had been done. Information brokers in Thedas weren’t unheard of, but it was considered rare for one to pick up the morally-questionable trade and flourish in it. The fact that you worked through dead-drops was even rarer. Much to your chagrin, the people in Kirkwall’s underground had started calling you the “Shadow Broker”.

It took a while after you had moved your work to Ostwick for you to start accepting the name and role you had unintentionally created for yourself in your search for answers, but you started humoring the metaphorical crowds by leaving a calling card at your dead drops – an amaryllis flower. It wasn’t long after that various underground networks in the Free Marches started interchanging “Shadow Broker” with “Amaryllis”. It honestly didn’t matter to you what your clients called you – the whole thing really only served to amuse, which was why you kept up the frivolous acts, even going so far as to plant amaryllis bulbs in set locations in each of the city-states. The areas served as places for you to announce through carefully manipulating the color of the flowers via magic what you had information about. Offers would be made in a simpler manner via amounts written on scraps of paper hidden in whichever nook or well-concealed crevasse you had chosen for the amaryllis to grow near. There was usually a nickname or other alias scribbled along with the amount, leaving you with the tedious task of tracking down the so-called “winner” and, usually by way of a conveniently placed note, informing them of where you were placing the information they had bought and when they were to go acquire it.

                You sighed. It was a somehow simple-yet-complicated system and you couldn’t even remember exactly how it had emerged anymore – it was just a thing that simply _was_ and you had more sense than to worry yourself questioning it. In fact, you were fairly certain the whole thing came about, much like you becoming a broker in the first place, as a fluke. The only part that mattered was that, while the last step was quite a pain, it worked. Accident or not, you had a good system going; why question or change it?

                Still, though, as your fame – or perhaps _infamy_ – grew, your clientele became more and more curious about whom exactly you were. Since you couldn’t have any of them even catching a glimpse of your mask since you wore it on the off occasions you had to sneak into a building, you started employing people to frequent the amaryllis blooms to check for any new bids. Of course, this, too, was done primarily in secret and through dead drops, but you did your research before “approaching” someone.

                At least, you had until you met Dand.

                Your contact – if you could even call him that – was a mammoth of a Fereldan warrior who worked as a rather intimidating member of a mercenary gang. He was the last person one would have expected to be spying for an information broker, and perhaps that had been why you had chosen him. You had first seen him and his company, Bloodlight, as you were leaving Kirkwall three years before. They had been fighting some overzealous Tal-Vashoth that had camped a little too far from the Wounded Coast, and as you had hidden yourself away in the shadows, you had thought only passively that the surly older man wielding the warhammer had a good, firm swing. There was nothing special about his dented pauldrons or slightly overlong-and-greying black hair that you could somewhat see courtesy of the bared fingertips you had pressed to the ground – just that he had a good swing that probably came from years of experience.

                No, he hadn’t stood out to you until the fight was over, when the bear of a man had turned his head and sent a small, cocky little grin of acknowledgement directly at your masked face hiding behind some scraggly bushes and willow trees.

                In the year that you had taken to the constant cover of the shadows – and, indeed, in all the years since – no one but Dand had been able to tell you were even nearby, let alone unhesitatingly land their eyes directly on you. It was that perceptiveness that had made the then-nameless mercenary stick firmly in your head. When you had moved on to Ostwick, you had kept an ear out for the mercenary group called Bloodlight (a hyperactive dwarven woman had shouted the name brashly in victory during your first semi-encounter with them, and the name’s poetic nature had stuck with you much the same way as Dand had). Soon enough, they had wandered into the area, and instead of doing your usual note-dropping and subterfuge, you waited until the Fereldan warrior was alone before approaching him directly and in person.

                You hadn’t wasted time with preamble, coming right out and asking him if he would spy for you, for all intents and purposes. As a mercenary of a group with a good reputation, you had explained, his group – and him by extension – would be hired from time to time by people of interest to many of your clients. You were hiring him, in turn, to spy on those “people of interest”. Most of your job was relatively simple – you just had to listen. The same applied to Dand. All he had to do was keep an ear out and report anything of interest he found. The man had a keen eye and an even keener business sense, so it didn’t take much persuasion to get him to agree to use his perception and skills of observation for your benefit while Bloodlight would receive the odd anonymous “donation” of much-needed, as you later found out, coin from you. You had conversed with him personally because you had a good feeling about him, like he had the potential to be a good investment of the risk and a huge asset. You hadn’t found yourself disappointed in the couple of year since.

                Having not spoken more than a few words to him since, you figured it better, if not a bit amusing. As much as it annoyed him, you hadn’t even given him so much as an alias by which to refer to you. A good six months back you had decided to let the man have control over your “employees” and occasionally make runs to dead drops for you when he was in the area to check on the progress of bids. You had also given him reign to recruit people for various tasks as he saw fit, so long as he informed you of updates regularly. This had the two of you meeting bi-monthly, and Dand had turned “guess the Broker’s name” and “just give her some random nickname when she finally gets too annoyed” into almost ritualistic games that you found had settled over you with the frightening comfort of familiarity.

                As it was, the only reason you found yourself situated in the small Fereldan tavern was because it was the fifteenth of Drakonis and one of your scheduled meets with Dand to discuss any changes with the System, as the two of you had started calling it. Also, you frowned, Dand had sent a letter via messenger bird (a risky thing that neither of you bothered with unless the need was dire) saying that a potential job had cropped up from a rather unlikely employer and to meet him in a small village near Amaranthine. At first, you had thought he was talking about Bloodlight, but a more careful reading seemed to imply that the mentioned job was more of the Broker variety and your curiosity (and wariness) had spiked through the proverbial roof.

                Alas, he was three hours late, and your ire was quickly rising as you quietly ordered a mug of tea in lieu of the ale you had previously been sipping. The serving girl looked at your scowling mask nervously before skittering away to get your tea, and you fought a grimace. You liked the mask, but it wasn’t exactly ideal for the times when you needed to make a public appearance.

                “I see you’re scarin’ the locals already, Ursa,” You wrinkled your nose at the familiar rumbling voice as a heavy form dropped itself without warning in the chair across from you. Speak of the Daedra and it shall appear…

                You nodded to the still-skittish serving girl who had very quickly returned with a mug of steaming black tea, “If you’re going to attempt guessing my name, please pick something that at least makes sense. I’m elven. Why would I have a Tevene name? You’re two hours late, by the way. I’ve been here for three.” You settled for warming your gloved hands on the mug, not daring move your mask to drink it with Dand close enough to glimpse your face if you tried.

                Dand’s laugh was loud, rough, and heartily Fereldan, mixing in with the other noises in the tavern as if it had belonged there all its life, “Oh, come on! I’ve been through my limited list of Dalish names and you denied every single one of them. Got to thinkin’ maybe you’re an escaped slave from Seheron or somethin’. Would explain that creepy ass mask, anyway.” You sighed exasperatedly.

                “My mask isn’t creepy. It’s a _grim work of art_ ,” you reminded him. In truth the whole conversation so far could have practically been scripted; it happened every time the two of you met like clockwork. “You didn’t give me an answer, Dand. You were supposed to be here two hours ago. What kept you?”

                A plate was set in front of the warrior with a _THUNK!_ The scent emitting from the food indicated that particular tavern’s specialty of roast with lumpy mashed potatoes. “Tegna was injured on our last job. Dot healed her as well as he could, but we were in the middle of a village, so he had to be discreet about it. Tryin’ to get her stubborn ass to agree to be carried took up half of the trip. Maker damn her _dwarven pride_. Don’t see why she couldn’t ‘ave left it back in bloody Orzammar…” You smiled a bit, fighting a snort of laughter. That sounded much like the artificer Dand had ranted about on one-too-many occasions.

                You paused a moment to allow the scraping of a fork against a food-laden plate to subside before you asked airily, “So, this job you mentioned in your letter. It sounded important.” You felt eyes settling on you uneasily, and you didn’t need to see them to imagine the usually mirthful grey eyes darkened to a storm cloud color, the scar running through his right eye only adding to the gruffness of Dand’s forty year old face. The hooked nose was crooked in several spots from being broken thrice, and there was another thick and angry scar running along his left cheekbone. It was slightly red due to its relative freshness of four months, and contrasted starkly with the light mocha skin that indicated the man’s Rivaini heritage. His hair, a dark charcoal streaked with grey, reached just past his shoulders and was tied back sloppily just so as to keep it out of his eyes. You had wondered at first why he didn’t just cut it off, but you had learned rather quickly that the man was worryingly attached to his thin curls for reasons he refused to divulge to anyone.

                “Ah, that,” groused Dand around a mouthful of potato after a terse moment. “Figured you’d have wanted to get the System dealins’ over with first, Sighs.” You fought the urge to live up to the nickname once it emerged. According to the Fereldan, you sighed a lot, hence the name he usually resorted to once he gave up on his self-imposed guessing game.

                You quirked an eyebrow, though it couldn’t be seen, “You sent a letter about it. If it was important enough for a letter, it takes priority over normal proceedings.”

                Another terse moment passed with only the tavern sounds and Dand’s chewing to break what would have been an awkward silence. He was reluctant to answer. No, you corrected yourself, lacing your fingers together and resting your chin on them casually. He was apprehensive, like he wasn’t sure just how you were going to take whatever news it was he wished to break to you. You hoped it was good, but, then again, in your line of work, news was rarely anything of the sort.

                “Dand?”

                Groaning, the beefy man pushed his half-empty plate away from him, “Please, Sighs? I’m still not sure what to make about the whole thing. It’s…odd.”

                You frowned, “Maybe I could help, but I can’t if you won’t tell me. What is going on and why is it odd?” Broker patience in the face of frustration – you had never loved it more than that moment.

                Dand crossed his armor-swathed arms, the gauntlets clinking against the metallic chest plate as he leaned heavily back in the creaky wooden chair, “Alright, alright. You win. I checked the drop by Starkhaven last week when the company passed through. There were several requests for the posted info, all around twelve sovereigns and a handful of silver.”

                “Twelve sovereigns for in-depth Carta activity?” You scoffed. “And here I thought my Starkhaven regulars weren’t cheapskates – those reports I swiped are worth _at least_ twenty. Who bid?”

                He answered briskly, “Several Carta representatives bid tryin’ to keep the information internal. Also, there were offers from two prominent Coterie smugglers, a retired Templar who thinks he has to clean up the streets, and I’m almost positive now that S.R.J. is a Friend of Red Jenny. But that wasn’t all.”

                You slowly copied his stance, “A new bidder? I trust you checked it out.” It wasn’t a question.

                “Yeah. Went quite poetically by ‘Griffon’…and you’ll never believe who it was.” Rolling your eyes, you waved a hand.

                “Well, get on with it! Some of us don’t have all day,” you grumbled at him.

                Dand scrubbed a hand across his face as if annoyed by your tone, looking around quickly before lowering his voice. You leaned forward; you were suddenly curious about why he was being so cautious. “It was the Hero of Ferelden.” You blinked once. Twice. Thrice.

                …oh…


	5. Chapter 4

_“Stand in the ashes of a trillion dead souls and ask the ghosts if honor matters. Silence is your answer.”_

_~ Javik “Mass Effect 3: From Ashes DLC”_

* * *

 

**_ Chapter 4 _ **

* * *

**_  
~Thedas 9:34 Dragon~_ **

* * *

**You waited patiently** once more in a tavern for Dand to arrive. The only differences that time around were that you did not have a drink in your hands, it was a different tavern, and it was the middle of Harvestmere instead of Drakonis. And, you smirked as you crossed your right leg carelessly over your left; you had just successfully completed a job. It was a job that even the tall, unimpressionable Fereldan would find words of praise for.

            The news that you had received from your right-hand man several months ago had been shocking, but in the end you had been pleased with the development, if not a bit suspicious. The Hero of Ferelden had purchased information from you. It wasn’t every day that a broker, an entity that worked primarily through Thedas’ underground, did business with a person with as much status as Nerys Aeducan. Though it _did_ make you a bit nervous, the more business-oriented side of you recognized that if someone raised with the morals of dwarven nobility felt comfortable buying from you, it usually meant both that your name had reached the higher-echelons of society and that it had reached it with a good reputation.

            As Dand had suspected, the bid placed for the Carta information in Starkhaven had only been done so as to get your attention. Logically, you would research the people making bids so you could accurately deliver information to the buyers, which you had to do with Nerys’ just like with all the others (well, Dand had actually done the snooping, but the identity of ‘Griffon’ had reached you, nonetheless). After discussing pros and cons with your Fereldan accomplice, you had decided to deliver the warden’s hard-bought stolen records personally. Without further preamble, Dand had agreed to accompany you to the keep in Amaranthine the following morning subtly with Bloodlight under guise of the mercenary company touring the center of Grey Warden activity. Dand had mentioned offhandedly that he also had a cousin in the Wardens he could pass off as visiting if the “tourists” idea didn’t work. You had looked at him skeptically, but his refusal to say more on the subject cued you to just let it drop.

            At dawn the two of you had set off, you in the shadows while Dand confidently led Bloodlight towards the looming walls that housed the Hero of Ferelden. You could still remember Dot, the resident Orlesian human healer who expertly disguised himself as an archer, of all things, darting his eyes about with rapt curiosity while scolding a still-injured Tegna to be careful not to reopen the gash on her thigh. Also following had been Milana, the group’s elven battlemage-disguised-as-a-spear-wielding-warrior who took a rather frightening offensive stance to compliment Dot’s supporting role. The little elf had been silently fuming at all of the _Shems_ walking about the city, and you had found the young woman’s ire towards humans a taxing quality derived from growing up in a Nevarran alienage.

            At any rate, you had snuck into the keep with minimal difficulty while Bloodlight loitered around the front gate, noting a strange lack of guards that hadn’t seemed so strange once you finally met face-to-face with Warden-Commander Aeducan. The stout woman had offered an almost coy smile and bit out a chuckled admission that she had been waiting for you.

            You exchanged the information, and, as you had predicted, Nerys stated that she hadn’t laid down the trail of breadcrumbs just for information on Carta activity that, in all honesty, hadn’t really concerned her, the Wardens, or Ferelden as a whole in the first place. The woman had simply wanted to speak with you face to face, and figured placing a bid of ridiculous proportions like she had would have been the best way to do it.

            Needless to say, it had worked.

            You came out of your musings rather quickly when a familiar light gait passed by you and a burdened THUNK indicated a heavily armored form dropping gracelessly into the usual chair across the table, “Elyssa.” You snorted, but more at the irony of how close the voice was for once to actually guessing your name.

            “Moron,” you greeted in turn with sarcasm lacing your tone as you crossed your arms and casually bounced your right leg a few times. “Again, if you’re going to guess my name, please have it make sense.”

            Dand rested his armored elbows on the table with the usual loud clamoring that came from metal grating on wood, “Ay, moron? Was that really necessary, Sighs?” The hurt in the giant of a man’s voice was a little too forced, and you rolled your eyes at it from behind your mask.

            “I only call them as I see them, Dand. Now, how are things? Any updates?”

            “I reckon I should be askin’ you that, ‘Ryllie. You _did_ send a _letter_ , after all,” said Dand, his voice screaming of a victorious smirk that you suddenly wanted to wipe off of his face along with the newest nickname the warrior had concocted for you. Then again, deriving it from “Amaryllis” was considerably better than if he had decided to call you something along the lines of “Brokie” like he’d tried threatening.

            You sighed, “Right, use my own words against me. Nice. The job went well, all things considering. I found some leads on some information I had been searching for myself, and I gave Griffon the reports about the state of the Deep Roads that she asked for. It was a win-win situation all around. Speaking of Griffon…” You reached into one of the many black leather pouches hooked to your, again, black leather belt that encircled your hips and pulled out a moderately sized coin purse that jingled with what you knew to be a handsome amount of gold and silver.

            Grinning, you slid the purse towards Dand, who snatched it up warily and pocketed it, “This is your share. I figured Bloodlight deserved a little extra in their monthly ‘donation’. I was certainly paid enough.”

            “Andraste’s ass,” Dand grumbled, “please tell me there’s a lot of copper in there. Please.”

            You smiled sweetly, though it couldn’t be seen, “Nope. All gold and silver, I’m afraid. Don’t spend it all in one place, hmm?”

            Dand groaned some other garbled curse as he scrubbed a large, gauntleted hand over his face. Laughing quietly at his new conundrum of figuring out a valid excuse to the other members of Bloodlight as to where the sudden large sum of money came from, you fiddled absently with the leather arm guard fastened around your right forearm.

            “So, why exactly did she have you scoutin’ the Deep Roads?” Dand frowned once he came out of his ponderings. “Sounds like somethin’ more suited to be left for the Wardens themselves, not a freelance broker whose loyalty and information could be bought quicker than a Templar after a blood mage.”

            Nodding, you reached into one of the gazillion-and-one pouches hidden in and along your handy belt and pulled out a small roll of parchment – scribbled across with information on the job. You passed it to Dand, satisfied when he didn’t rush to read it in such a public place, and leaned forward so the Fereldan could hear your lowered voice, “Turns out, Griffon and her little group during the Blight found a…particularly _special_ anvil in an ancient thaig that dated to the First Blight...” You tapped your fingers against the table, silently urging Dand to get the reference you were making, as well as providing yourself with a kind of conduit to give you a hazy image of his face.

It didn’t take long for his grey eyes to widen, “You mean they found - !?”

“Yes!” you hissed, slapping a hand over his mouth. “Now keep it down, fool! This table is secluded, but people can still hear you!” Thankfully, you hadn’t felt any eyes turn to the two of you in your little corner thanks to the minor commotion. Small miracles, you supposed.

He nodded. Removing your hand with a sigh, you continued, “ _Anyway,_ they blocked out the passage, but they wanted to make sure it was still sealed off. Word about that group from Kirkwall going pretty far beneath the surface got a few of Griffon’s colleagues worrying about the ruins possibly being found by expeditions.”

“Which would be bad?”

“Definitely. Griffon told me that they had scouts along major entrances that they knew about, but one of her major rules about the Deep Roads is that for every one entrance you know, there’s five you don’t. She didn’t want to go to the Legion of the Dead because she was worried about leaks, and she didn’t want to go to anyone in Orzammar because it was too far for anyone there to keep an eye on it. In short, I’m being paid to do periodic checks to make extra sure that the artifact is blocked up tight and Darkspawn free. Those scouts are able to deal with them in small numbers, yes, but the handful of them that are there would be overwhelmed by larger swarms that can tend to crop up.”

            Dand cringed, “’ _Darkspawn free_ ’…? I suddenly don’t envy you, Sighs. I ran into a few of the bastards ‘round these parts durin’ the Blight. Ain’t nice company – they’re too prone to _stabbin’_.”

            Chuckling heartily, you answered wryly, “I wouldn’t imagine they can hold a great conversation, either, but I digress. Griffon also said that when she and her group were there during the Blight, there was a Broodmother nest in a close enough proximity that it has her on edge. They took care of it, but she figures that if Darkspawn got that close before, they can easily get that close – maybe even farther – again. Reasonable worries from my perspective – I agreed.”

            “Makes sense to keep checkin’, but I’m just wonderin’ why she wants to keep Darkspawn away from it in the first place,” The frown on Dand’s face was palpable. “What’re they gonna’ to do…bleed on it? Turn it into some sort of altar to the next Archdemon? Ha! I’d almost pay to see that…”

            Shrugging, you made an airy hand-wave that signaled quite loudly that you had no idea, “Taint was one of the things some of her researchers were concerned about. They aren’t sure how the artifact would be affected by it, so they don’t want to take any chances. She figured that it would be best to just keep them away at least until they’re sure about whether or not it will do anything.”

            Dand scratched at his stubbly chin, “I have family in Griffon’s little group. Now, he don’t tell us much – haven’t heard from the bastard in years, actually – but I’ve gathered enough from dear old Cousin to understand that Taint can only infect living things... You sure Griffon ain’t just tryin’ to get you to do her dirty work for her?”

            You rolled your eyes, “I’m sure. I was told the way this thing really works, exactly – I think she’s right to be skeptical about the usual rules that apply to Darkspawn taint applying to the artifact. She was too serious and genuinely concerned, but both unable to leave he post and was uncomfortable sending scouts or raw recruits to check it. Add that with the fact that even she isn’t aware of all of the crevasses and entrances, she figured someone like me who’s specialized in infiltration would be better suited for the task.”

            “Don’t they have rogues? I’m pretty sure they have rogues.”

            “Yes,” your voice drawled slowly. “But their rogues focus on fighting Darkspawn. I focus on finding those aforementioned hidden crevasses and entrances. Doesn’t take a genius to figure out who would be better suited for the task at hand.”

            Waving his hand in a universal “peace” gesture, the Fereldan quirked an eyebrow, “Sure, sure. Just think you’re actin’ rather _honorably_ makin’ sure the ‘spawn don’t get near those scouts. ‘Till now, I wasn’t so sure you even knew what that word meant.”

            An invisible frown mirrored the one carved into your mask, “Honor has nothing to do with this. Griffon is paying me good coin, and I’m able to do some research of my own while I’m at it. It’s a win-win. Keeping an eye on the scouts is just part of the job.”

            “Right,” your companion scoffed as he crossed his arms. It was then that you noticed how on-edge he seemed, his eyes darting to and fro suspiciously. “Whatever helps you sleep at night, Sighs. Is that all you wanted to talk about?”

            You furrowed your eyebrows, lacing your fingers together and resting your chin on them absently, “You’re awfully jumpy, Dand. Is there something _you_ want to talk about?” Grey eyes flashed dangerously.

            “No,” the warrior hissed, “I just wanna’ get Dot and Milana _out of here_. I think you forgot that I employ mages when you decided to meet at the Maker-damned _Spoiled Princess_!”

            You shook your head calmly, “I didn’t forget.”

            “Then why in Andraste’s blessed pyre would you wanna’ meet up so bloody close to a Circle tower? You know Dot _escaped_ from the Circle at Montsimmard, right? If Templars caught him and figured out the connection, they wouldn’t hesitate to make him Tranquil!”

            “So you’ve said,” you agreed with a nod. “But there’s a reason I chose to meet here. I told you there was some research in the Deep Roads I wanted to complete while I was there? It had to do with Lyrium.”

            Dand threw his hands up in exasperation, “Then go to the fuckin’ Coterie, Sighs, or the Carta! Why even _look_ at a Circle?”

            “There’s a dwarven arcanist, if you can believe it or not, working with a mage in the Ferelden Circle of Magi studying Lyrium and its properties. I also have a suspicion that they’re researching a strange type of Lyrium discovered somewhere far into the Deep Roads. I just wish to speak with them and…‘ _compare notes_ ’, if you will.”

            The man looked at you like you had grown a second head, “You’re going to sneak in? To a tower? In the _middle of a lake_? _Guarded by an army of Templars_? Maker’s breath, woman, are you insane?!” Your eye twitched as the accusation immediately conjured up the memory of an unfortunate run-in with a certain Daedra you’d had in Solitude several years prior…

            You had never quite been able to look at cheese the same way since.

            “Not the most difficult infiltration I’ve ever done, but I get how it can be seen as a mad endeavor,” you shrugged after a moment of silence. The hazy outline of Dand’s face in your mind turned humorously incredulous. “Then again, I am the one who decided to become an information broker and work through dead drops and mercenary spies. I wouldn’t say I’m the best person to ask that question.”

            “Remind me never to ask you what you think your most difficult infiltration actually is. I’m a bit scared to know.” Dand said slowly. “Anyway, when are you plannin’ on undertakin’ this suicide mission?”

            You grinned widely, “ _We_ are going in at midnight tonight. I figure that gives us a good several hours to find this mage and arcanist, get the information, and get out before the sun rises.”

            “Uh…‘ _we_ ’?” Blinking slowly, the warrior scratched at the angry red scar on his cheek. “You’re jokin’, right? Yeah. You’re jokin’. Not funny, Sighs – I thought you were serious there for a minute and actually wanted _me_ to sneak into a _Circle tower_ with you.” The awkward little chuckle that followed seemed horrifically out of place and a little too high-pitched for Dand’s deep rumble.

            A smirk that bled into your voice was plastered firmly on your face, “Nope. I’m deadly serious. Why so hesitant? Afraid of a few scrawny little Templars?” His usually dark complexion seemed to pale several shades.

            “’ _S-scrawny_ ’?” Dand stuttered. “You call those _rigorously trained_ oafs _scrawny_?!”

            A dark-haired head dropped into his arms as he hoarsely whispered, “Andraste’s pyre, woman, you’re out of your Maker-blessed mind…”

            You couldn’t help the roaring laugh that bubbled forth, “To you, the damn things look like toothpicks! Besides, you’re not a mage. Worst they could do if they catch us is stab you to death.” Dand’s head jerked up, face contorted into a wide-eyed expression.

            “Damn it, that’s not helping!”

            Dand was intimidated by Templars. You couldn’t help it – you laughed even harder.


	6. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

* * *

“ _Our days are numbered  
_ _in the world of fools.  
_ _We feel the hunger,  
_ _and follow no one’s rules.  
_ _Everybody wants a turn on life –  
_ _nobody can seem to get it right.  
_ _Our days are numbered,  
_ _and you’re no fool.  
_ _Nobody’s fool._ ” 

-Black Veil Brides “ _Days Are Numbered_ ”

* * *

**_~Thedas 9:34 Dragon~_ **

* * *

 

**“Ow! Get off my foot!”**

            “I ain’t on your foot! It’s _your_ dagger hilt that’s gettin’ comfy in my ribcage!

            “Oh, just _shut up_!” your voice hissed quietly as you jerked the offending spiky glass pommel away from Dand’s armored person with a little more force than was necessary. “You’re going to tip someone off that we’re here!”

            The Fereldan made an exaggerated motion towards himself, “ _I’m_ gonna’ tip someone off? You’re the one who bloody well started it!”

            You glared, and even though your mask prevented your accomplice from seeing the gesture, you felt him flinch in response, “Gods damn it, just let it go! We don’t know when that Templar is going to circle back!”

            Dand grumbled a curse under his breath, but quickly fell silent after a firm shove to his shoulder seemed to get your point across. The storeroom (if you could even call it that – it was really more of an overlarge closet) the two of you had temporarily barricaded yourselves in was dark. The only sliver of light illuminating the small space came from a crack between the wooden door and the stone door jamb that you and the warrior had squished yourselves rather uncomfortably into a corner to avoid standing too close to.

            You both froze as the tell-tale sounds of heavy boots slapping against carpet-covered flagstones sounded from down the curving hallway. The gait was set in a military-style march that told you it was the Templar assigned to patrol the third level of the Circle tower, and the very person you and Dand had been trying to avoid for the past hour and a half. The two of you had managed to do it, but only by the skin of your teeth.

            Sneaking into the Circle had actually been more difficult than you had anticipated, and you only had yourself to blame for the folly. Your decision to bring Dand with you on the little self-imposed mission had admittedly been spur of the moment, and thus poorly planned. When you had forced the issue and all but dragged the warrior to where you had a boat of your own hidden away a good mile or so south from the dock, you had really only been thinking of Dand’s impressive awareness of his surroundings that caused him to be as perceptive as he was and the benefits the trait could have in trying to find your two targets. You hadn’t taken into account his clunky heavy armor laid over top jingling chainmail, or the large stone block miraculously fixed atop a long, uneven staff of wood your main informant called a “warhammer”. You remembered asking about how the handle didn’t snap under the weight like a twig, but had only gotten some rant about the wood being “magically reinforced” that you had honestly let go in one ear and out the other.

            At any rate, once the two of you had successfully maneuvered across the watery stretch of Lake Calenhad without being detected by any of the outside patrols, you were left with the grueling task of trying to sneak inside. That was where you had first regretted bringing Dand with you. While you had been sure to keep yourselves tucked into the shadowy corners, the warrior’s armor was not suited for sneaking and you had raised suspicion not even halfway through the entrance hall. Add in the garish orange color the metal plates had been stained (a “style preference”, Dand had argued once, that according to him made him seem more formidable in battle), you had been quick to realize that you were dragging along a flashing beacon that all but loudly shouted, “Hey, look at me! I’m breaking into your heavily fortified tower and pretty much advertising to the general public that it would be all too easy for your mages to escape! Catch me if you can!” down the winding halls.

            Hence why you and the gigantic oaf were hiding in a storeroom – the norm for the time you were sneaking through the halls rather unsuccessfully had consisted of ducking into the odd side room to avoid the now very much alert Templars on patrol through the tower’s varying levels and praying to every deity you could think of between the two of you that you wouldn’t accidentally rush into an occupied room. Luck had seemed to be on your side so far, but wryly you wondered just how long that would last. Gloved fingertips had itched to cast a muffle and invisibility spell, your usual procedure for situations such as the one you found yourself in, but with Dand accompanying you, that plan had been tossed out the proverbial window to swim with the fishes in the lake stories below. Sure, you trusted Dand not to rat you out to the nearest Templar for using magic. _Mara’s mercy_ , you thought, _it would be suicidal for him, too._ Especially so considering he was just as much in the wrong for breaking into a Circle as you were _without_ the blatant use of your magic. It was just that doing so would cause questions and problems you really didn’t feel like dealing with. Too much work, you reasoned.

            But _damn_ if the option wasn’t sounding more and more appealing the longer you were stuffed into the gods’ forsaken closet with the insufferable brute…

            “Hey, Sighs, d’ya even know exactly who we’re - ?” Dand started whispering, but you deliberately shifted so as to jab the handle of your dagger into a soft spot in his armor.

            The whimpered groan of pain was almost satisfying, “I know what I’m doing, fool.”

            He rubbed at the offending spot, “Really? What do this arcanist and mage even look like, then? You ain’t got a clue, do you? Never thought I’d see the day when _you_ , of all people, wasn’t prepared months in advance!” Dand’s tone was mockingly dry. You scowled deeply (admitting that the truth sometimes stung… _sometimes_ ) and aimed another hit with your dagger that ended up being slightly off the mark.

            “’Ay! Watch the armor. You’re gonna’ scratch it,” whining pitifully at the clang of glass on metal, there was a light scraping sound that signified the soft leather underside of the Fereldan’s gauntlets gently running over his cuirass. Whether he was actually looking for damage to his armor or simply mocking you was anyone’s guess, but you sent a blind glower in the man’s direction regardless. _Insufferable chaurus-wrestling moron_ … You couldn’t give two flying nugs about the fact that Dand didn’t even know what a chaurus _was_ , let alone that he would probably never wrestle one (though you would have paid good coin to see it, if only you could, for one, actually _see_ , and two, get to witness Dand’s face getting burned off by the acid. No one ever said you weren’t a bit sadistic). You also apparently didn’t care that you had picked up a common dwarven curse sometime in the four years you’d lived in Thedas. The wonders of tending to work closely alongside the _charming_ business of Lyrium smuggling…

            Twitching your nose absently as a drop of adrenaline-induced sweat trickled uncomfortably down the length of it, you silently cursed your heat-trapping mask and heavy clothing for not the first time since entering the tower, “How old are you, four? Come off it, it’s just armor. Get it polished later if you’re so worried about it. And to answer your question, I haven’t the slightest idea, but how many dwarves are you going to see hanging around a Circle of Magi?”

            “How in the Maker’s bloody name should _I_ know?” Dand growled, though he thankfully had enough sense about him to keep his voice down. “Do I look like I’m well-versed in this sort of thing? Nope? Right. Thought not. And don’t tell me to ‘ _come off it_ ’! You better be hopin’ you didn’t scratch my damn armor, Sighs!”

            Just as you opened your mouth to angrily retort, there was a quiet, choppy giggling sound that rang through the air and seemed to linger heavily with awkwardness. Your face contorted into an expression of horrified confusion as you turned it in Dand’s direction incredulously. A feather light touch of your fingertips to his armor told you that he was making the same face in turn.

            “Did you just _giggle_?”

            The face you were making got even more ridiculous at his question, “Um, _no_. I think the better question here is: Did _you_ giggle?” The burgeoning discomfort from the situation was weighing heavily on you only for a brief moment, when a decidedly feminine yelp of surprise sounded out to replace the laughter.

            “Okay, that ain’t me. Sighs?”

            “The day I _squeak_ is the day you ditch your armor for something less gaudy.”

            Blinking, the two of you murmured in simultaneous conclusion, “Someone’s in here.”

            Pressing your fingers to the wall behind you, you peered around the hazy image of the storeroom you were provided with. It was dark save the sliver of light from the misshapen door and was cluttered with shelves and boxes filled with various magical baubles and oddities, but there was one spot off in an adjacent corner, behind a supply table laden with excess parchment, which you were just then realizing was occupied.

            _That empty-room streak didn’t last very long…that’s what I get for opening my big mouth_ , you mused to yourself as you continued your investigation. A booted foot was peeking out from the darkened corner, and the embroidered edges of silken robes sparkled in the dim lighting. The figure was either very short or curled up very tightly into the crevasse created by the joining walls and the sturdy legs of the desk, and the more you studied the strange anomaly, the more you started to convince yourself that it was a combination of the two. The tip of an auburn ponytail could be seen glinting a fiery shade of vermillion, and though the hairstyle didn’t really define the person’s gender, it combined with the giggle and squeak prior all but confirmed that the third party was female.

            Dand’s hand reaching around his warhammer broke you out of your observational stupor, “Come out. Now.” Frowning, you doubted that the person, whoever she was, posed much of a threat. Grudgingly, however, your rational mind won over your instincts and your hands came to rest lightly on the hilts of your daggers. Just in case.

            There was a brief pause intermingling with the potent stench of fear overlaid by dangerous curiosity lingering in the air before a rustling sound indicated movement. Scuffling ensued shortly after as the mystery woman did as she was asked and stepped into the minimal light.

            “I’m sorry,” she chirped, thankfully keeping her voice soft. You froze. Her accent was what in Thedas passed as dwarven. “I didn’t mean to eavesdrop. I was in here looking for some spare parchment when you two came in. You’re obviously armed and I didn’t really have any way to get out, so I just stayed…”

            Relaxing, you flashed a smile before you could really think about the action, “It’s alright. I’m sorry about intruding.” Dand’s scoff quickly turned into a grunt of pain as you made a point of stepping on his unarmored foot sharply. _Note to self: Make Dand buy armored boots…_

            The woman seemed to blink, “I…I’d say it’s alright, but you’re clearly trespassing. Not that it’s any of my business – it’s not! But I do study here. And live here. And you kind of look like an assassin…”

            “An assassin, Sighs? I _told_ you to switch out some of the black for another color. You bein’ stubborn’s really comin’ back to bite you in the arse,” snickered Dand despite the seriousness of the situation. Your hand twitched as you fought the urge to pull out one of your daggers and stab him. _Counterproductive_ , you reminded yourself like a mantra. _Counterproductive and way, way too messy._

            Massaging the back of your neck through the cloth of your cowl, you sighed, “I’m not an assassin. You’re the arcanist, right? I’m actually here looking for you. I heard you and a colleague of yours were studying Lyrium. I wanted to discuss your results.”

            The dwarf seemed to perk up a bit, but you were impressed when she also appeared to keep her interest subdued and cautious, “I am…but wouldn’t a letter have sufficed?”

            “She has an aversion to sendin’ letters unless the Maker-damned world’s endin’,” Dand joked, though you didn’t fail to notice the hand that was still firmly wrapped around his hammer. You wondered why he even bothered – it wasn’t like he had the room to swing the cumbersome weapon should the situation come to it. “Drives me up a wall, as you can imagine.” The woman was silent.

            “Ignore him – he wouldn’t understand a serious situation if it slapped him in the face,” you intoned dryly. Beside you, Dand seemed to deflate with a muttered protest. “I didn’t send a letter for security reasons. They’re too easily traced, especially since your research isn’t common knowledge. I didn’t need people figuring out my location by tracking a messenger bird or bribing a loose-lipped courier. It was safer this way.”

            “Safer, right…you _would_ think that,” groused your Fereldan accomplice.

            The arcanist ignored him as you had suggested, much to your amusement, “True…but how did you come to know about my research? Actually, you know what? Don’t tell me. I probably don’t want to know. I don’t know if that’s such a good idea. I don’t want to tell you that you wasted a trip, but I don’t know you or what you’d do with this information.” You found yourself again wishing you had left Dand behind.

            “I’m doing some research of my own,” you half-lied smoothly without missing a beat. “I have a theory about Lyrium and its connection to the Fade. I just wanted to compare notes, if you wouldn’t be opposed.”

            “We’re publishing an essay about it in a month to the College of Enchanters. I’m sure they’d be more than happy to share it with you once it’s been presented to them,” the dwarf said warily. “I can’t think of any reason why you couldn’t wait until then.”

            Frowning, you paused for a moment before scrounging up what you deemed a suitable excuse somewhere from the recesses of your mind, “The matter is – ”

            “She’s Amaryllis,” Dand shrugged nonchalantly as if he’d interrupted you solely to discuss something mundane as the weather, “y’know, the bloke in the Free Marches goin’ by ‘ _Shadow Broker_ ’. Don’t like to go through official channels, this one.” You “stared” at the Fereldan, slack-jawed. He appeared nonplussed at the mask glaring at him in obvious malcontent and continued to gaze with absent interest as the dwarf’s eyes went wide.

            “Oh wow! Amaryllis? Here?” You wanted to groan at the starry quality the high-pitched voice acquired. “I mean. I’ve heard about you – who hasn’t? Some of the apprentices here like to gossip about what’s going on in around their homes. From letters they get from their family, you know? There’s a group of Free Marchers here who _love_ theorizing about who you really are. They kept _insisting_ you’re a man, but I just _knew_ you were a woman! There’s been no evidence that you have spies, and they say that you sell information on the Carta a lot – you’d have to be an amazing infiltrator to be able to do that! Not saying that a man couldn’t do it, but you being a woman just makes so much more sense! Ancestors, I can’t imagine why you’d be interested in _my_ work of all things…” The stout woman seemed to have lost any and all reservations she’d had prior as she continued to babble ecstatically. Her volume was slowly increasing and a wince slowly began to form on your face.

            Your _wonderful_ accomplice snickered under his breath, “Looks like you have a fan…” You decided not to dignify the murmur with a response.

            “Like I said, I have some theories of my own that I’m working on regarding Lyrium and I would simply like to compare my theories to any information you have. I prefer doing things in person. However, considering you work in a Circle tower, I couldn’t really approach you directly. I do apologize for the trespassing, but I hope you understand that I really didn’t have much of a choice,” you explained in your calm “Broker voice”. You had insisted that the patient tone was meant to be calming, reassuring on the handful of times you had been forced to speak to people. Dand had been skeptical and been firm that it sounded like you were up to something. That was a matter upon which the two of you had agreed to let sleeping dogs lie.

            “I…,” the dwarf hesitated for a brief moment more before heaving a determined sigh. “Alright. I’ll show you, but we’ll still have to avoid the Templars. And I still don’t really like this…”

            You held your right hand up in what you hoped came off in a solemn manner, “I swear that any information I may glean from you will be repaid, and shall never be passed to another person without your express permission. I’ll even knock Dand out so he doesn’t hear, if you’d prefer.” There was a muffled protest from the Fereldan that was silenced with a nudge to his arm to show you were really just kidding. You wouldn’t knock him out – escaping from the Tower if you did that was just asking for trouble. However, you were not opposed to holding your conversation with the dwarf away from his ears. It was sensitive information you would be discussing with her – information that indirectly, if you were correct in your assumptions, involved Nirn and the catastrophe that had befallen it because you hadn’t been able to act in time. It was information you didn’t want Dand to hear, in part because you were ashamed. You had failed, _fouled_ , and it had led not only you, but millions more to their ruin. How could anyone trust you after learning that? How could you even trust yourself?  
            Questions for another time, you reassured yourself as the dwarf reached out a hand to shake your own, “My name is Dagna.” A smile bloomed slightly. You had a name to put to the voice now.

            “Amaryllis is the alias I prefer to go by when directly dealing with others. Shadow Broker is a bit of a mouthful,” You let the smirk bleed through your voice. “I think I’m going to enjoy working with you.”

* * *

 **You honestly hadn’t been too shocked** when Dagna led you and Dand through several passageways and inter-connected rooms that seemed to have escaped Templar notice and was therefore devoid of their oppressing presence. In fact, you had actually felt a little ashamed since your lack of knowledge of the hidden paths severely indicated that you really hadn’t done your homework before infiltrating the tower. You were sure that your heated face was blushing several garish shades of orange beneath the mask that you never remembered ever being so grateful for before that moment.

            As you walked silently behind the dwarf, you allowed your hand to run gently along the stone wall to your right. The small patches on your fingertips where your gloves lacked fabric allowed you to press your flesh to the cool surface and “see” it. The hallways were relatively plain as was the usual Fereldan style, but the occasional carving or rustic painting caused the building to gain a feel reminiscent of what you had felt in Skyrim among the ancient walls of the College of Winterhold. Though there were only the slightest similarities between Fereldan and Nordic cultures, there was enough of one for you to feel a little homesick.

            Dand lumbered along next to you. He was pouting like someone had just stolen his last sweetroll and seemed entirely nonplussed about the simplistic grandeur of the occasional vaulted ceiling or impressive magical artifact. The clanking of his armor was dulled courtesy of _something_ Dagna had done to it with some runes and a good splash from a Lyrium potion before leaving the storeroom. You weren’t sure what it was, but considering that it worked, you figured you didn’t really want to know. You had sold information pertaining to Thedosian magic before, but that did not under any circumstances mean you completely understood what it was you were selling exactly. Pretty much all you had gathered about it in four years was that it was Aedric in nature, pulling more directly from Aetherius than from Oblivion like your own Daedric magic, that blood magic was bad and left mages especially susceptible to demonic possession, and that not everybody in Thedas was born with the ability to perform magic.

            Personally, you thought the last bit to be the reason so many in Thedas feared magic. The main religion, you’d found, preached that their main god had abandoned them. Mages were _special_ , one could argue. Chosen by their creator to have a power bestowed upon them that made them stand out from the masses. If the “Maker” was absent and hadn’t had a chosen one since his bride, Andraste, then how could he make these people from all walks of life randomly rise above the others? How could he _choose_ these people if he was absent until his faithful proved themselves? What made _them_ so special? It had perhaps begun as jealousy that mages were instead deemed “cursed”, you figured, and then had only been fueled by the fear of potential demonic possession. People feared what they didn’t understand. All had coagulated into the culture that locked mages into a tower and only conveniently remembered them when something horrible went wrong or they needed their help.

            It all made you a little sick. Sure, in Nirn those that chose to pursue magical paths hadn’t been welcomed unquestioningly and universally across Tamriel, but at least they were not treated as prisoners or practically third-class citizens. If someone in Tamriel had decided they wished to lock all with magical talent away from the world like those in Thedas, they would have had to shackle their own wrists in order to do so, as well as those of kings, priests, farmers, sons, daughters. It then was a benefit, you supposed, that everyone had free access to harness magical energies. One could not discriminate against mages without also discriminating against themselves.

            Then again, at least Nirnish mages couldn’t be possessed by demons. That certainly helped alleviate the innate fear of those who practiced magic.

            Dagna soon stopped in front of a nondescript wooden door set into a wall along a hallway you had quickly determined had seen better days. Several bricks were crumbling and the flagstone flooring was missing and cracked in more than a handful of spots. Broken torches littered the hall with rotting splinters, and you were almost positive you could hear several mice scurrying through the dimly lit corridor. The door was the only thing in the vicinity that you could “see” wasn’t utterly decrepit.

            “Uhh, y’sure this is the place?” Dand inquired warily. You sent an invisible glare his way that turned out to be unneeded as the dwarf didn’t take offense to the comment.

            “Yep!” chirped Dagna in response as she eyed the rusted, ancient-looking lock and drew a slim, runed key from within her robes. “Lyrium can be dangerous to research, so we decided to use this wing of the tower in case things got explosive. The only things we’d be harming here would be mice and the occasional spider.”

            Dand paled, “Explosive?”

            You gave him a pointed look you hoped he could feel, “Don’t tell me you didn’t know this. You’re a mercenary – surely you’ve gotten the occasional job to take care of smuggling rings?”

            “Well, yeah. The fact that the stuff’s explosive didn’t really register until now…,” he grumbled, his tone turning into a whining, sour pitch that made you chuckle.

            “Are you still regretting coming along? I’m sure Dagna could point you in the direction of the nearest Templar if you want to leave that badly.”

            The Fereldan glowered at you sharply, though his further blanching face belied the fear he felt at the prospect, “No. I’m just wonderin’ not for the first time about your sanity. Sometimes I wonder if you’re a bloody demon sent to make my life miserable.”

            You would have retorted, but at that moment, the rusted lock Dagna had been putting a considerable amount of strain on to twist the enchanted key finally gave in with a shrieking wail that stood your hair on end followed by a heavy _thunk!_ The stout arcanist grinned widely and pushed the oak slab open (followed by, much to your dismay, more wailing courtesy of the rusted iron hinges) to reveal the workshop beyond.

            Glowstones lined the walls, placed in strategic gaps between thickly-laden bookshelves. Several desks and tables were littered around the room all covered in sheaves of paper and thick, leather bound tomes opened to various different pages and stacked atop one another. Empty ink bottles were pushed off to one side of the desk farthest to the right wall along with what you counted to be five broken quills and a dozen half-empty bottles of Lyrium. The desks in the middle and off to the left side of the room held glowstones of their own, though these were significantly brighter in luminescence than their wall-bound counterparts. The remnants of food littered two plates stacked haphazardly on the rug-covered floor next to the left-hand desk – dinner, you presumed. There were no windows lining any of the walls, and you figured that particular aspect had something to do with the fact that the room wasn’t near an exterior wall.

            As the three of you walked past the threshold, it took you only a moment to realize something was amiss and you froze midstride. Dand confusedly followed your example while Dagna skipped over to one of the bookshelves without even sparing a glance to the center of the anomaly that had caught your interest. You barely noticed any of this, your focus instead on the strange feeling you were now sensing about the room as you stretched your left hand back again to firmly hold the doorframe.

            The heavy blanket of Aedric magic was thick in the air even outside of the tower, but inside it was almost oppressive to your more Daedric-oriented senses. With each breath you almost felt as if you were choking on the polar opposite of your own essence. It was disconcerting, but something you had been able to get past with a little thought and a lot of determination. It didn’t help matters any that your Altmeri blood had always made you highly sensitive to lingering magical energies.

            You recalled Merrill briefly, how the young elf’s magic had felt like it was being diseased, almost like it was choking her. Shortly thereafter, it had come to light that the First was involved in blood magic, and the “disease” you had felt had actually been a looming demonic presence. Studying Merrill and Marethari had been how you had learned that Thedosian magic felt pure, yet oppressive, and how to tell when it contained anomalies.

            What had captured your attention so much had been the presence of a man in the room and the way Thedas’ magic seemed to flow around him. A head covered in a mess of tawny curls was bent over a roll of parchment set astride a thick tome on the middle desk while the left-handed scribe scribbled furiously away, quill moving at an almost inhuman pace. The feeling of wrongness that to you signified Thedosian magic threaded through the air, reaching and grasping for the robed man. However, it was obstructed by something flowing outward from the mage, coming from the center of his forehead. What caused you such a start was the feel of the veil of energy that bubbled around him. It felt familiar, like home.

            It was Daedric.

                Suddenly, the man looked up from his writing and observed you with placid chocolate eyes, the look in them causing you to shiver, “You brought visitors, Dagna?” The question was not spoken as such and was more of an observation. You didn’t know what it was, but there was something _forced_ in the mage’s tone that made you feel uneasy, and something about the look in his eyes that made you want to turn tail and run. You couldn’t place it, but it was there.

            “Oh! Yeah. She wanted to look at our research on Lyrium,” The dwarf shrugged as she riffled through more books as if the question was one she answered daily.

            Her coworker’s, as that’s the only other person you figured the man could’ve been, face remained impressively neutral, “Is that truly wise?” Dagna had at that moment comically wedged her entire upper body on a deep-set shelf, legs dangling precariously as she tossed books behind her on a pile.

            “Yeah, definitely!” she replied, voice muffled. “Don’t worry so much about it and just introduce yourself! I’ve got this all under control. AHA!” With a cry of victory, her auburn head popped out from the bookshelf. In her hand was nestled a sloppily-bound journal about an inch thick. The binding, though obviously fresh, looked worn and you thought the pages stuffed inside as addendums to be the culprit.

            The mage’s sigh drew your cautious attention back to him as he drew himself up to his full height, which you estimated to be about to Dand’s nose, “If you believe it prudent. My name is Daylen Amell. It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Serahs.” _Serah_ , you thought. _Free Marcher._

            You copied the slight inclination of his head respectfully, though his forced tone of voice kept you decidedly on edge, “Likewise. You may call me Amaryllis, if it pleases you. This is my colleague, Dand.” Daylen regarded you with a blank stare before sitting once more. You relaxed only slightly when he didn’t make a move as if to leave and go inform the Templars.

            “You’ve got an odd coworker, lass,” Dand finally spoke up as Dagna plopped the makeshift book on the desk off to the left of the room. You smacked Dand on the arm closest to you as his comment was loudly spoken, but Daylen didn’t even so much as twitch. Instead, he watched the interaction with unnerving, blank eyes. You shuddered again.

            The dwarf looked shocked at the question for only a moment, “Oh, Daylen? Sorry, I forget that people who aren’t used to being around them usually react like that. He’s Tranquil.” You started at that, pressing your hand more firmly to the doorframe in order to sharpen the picture of the room behind your blinded eyes. Sure enough, as you studied the mage’s forehead more closely, behind the messy bangs was a distinctly shaped scar in the shape of a Chantry sunburst.

            No, not scar – _brand._

            Bile rose in the back of your throat, but you pushed it down. You had only ever read about Tranquil mages, the state only bestowed upon people by the Chantry Templars when the mage in question was deemed unable to safely control his powers or resist demonic temptation. You thought the practice barbaric. You had been raised in a society where people were nothing if they did not try to harness the magic within them, in a world where every single living organism possessed the ability to reach into the realms of Oblivion and even bypass them for Aetherius if they were powerful enough. The thought of being stripped of your magic, of your connection to the realms within which the power you drew off of resided was frightening enough. The thought of being void of emotion was downright terrifying. It was one of the things in Thedas that had absolutely appalled you upon your first learning of it, and the disdain for the act had barely managed to have been tempered by the theory that Tranquility hampered possession.

            You understood why it was done, sympathized with the reasoning, even. You just didn’t agree with what it did. -

            “You may not wish it,” you said to him slowly, knowing how your words would likely be taken and unsure if their redundancy made them any less worthy to speak, “but you have my sympathies. I know little of Tranquility, but from what I have heard, I know it has a stigma of being…awkwardly received.” You could sense Dand’s eyes on you questioningly at the uncharacteristic (for you) display of sympathy, but you ignored it in favor of watching Daylen tilt his head in reflexive mimicry of curiosity.

            “I was deemed a safety risk after I aided a blood mage in destroying his Phylactery. The former Knight-Commander Greagoir sentenced me to Tranquility for my crimes,” he intoned peacefully. “Tranquil are valued among mages. While we cannot use our magic, it is safer this way, and we can still serve the Circle in other manners. I do so as a researcher. Your sympathy, however, is… _appreciated_.” Somehow, the word came out sounding more like “catalogued”. You smiled sadly.

            Dagna, however, scowled, “You forgot to mention why Greagoir is the _former_ Knight-Commander.” You started at the animosity in her voice. It was the angriest you’d ever heard the dwarf.

            Blinking slowly, the Tranquil mage looked in her direction for a moment before turning back to you and Dand, “The former Knight-Commander was dismissed because I had been acting on First Enchanter Irving’s request to catch the blood mage in the act. Knight-Commander Greagoir ignored this fact and that I had passed my Harrowing days before. The College of Enchanters and several Seekers of Truth deemed that I had been made Tranquil illegally.”

            “Damn right that’s illegal!” Dand suddenly exploded. “Your _former Knight-Commander_ didn’t ‘ave the right to make you Tranquil without your First Enchanter’s agreement, let alone if you passed your Harrowin’! This is why I bloody hate the Maker-damned Circle!” His gauntleted hands were fisted at his sides so tightly that the leather was squeaking against the metal plates. You looked at him curiously – you had known him to have a dislike for the Circles of Magi and the Templars, with a slight fear accompanying the latter borne of a deep-seated respect for their rigorous martial training, but you had never seen him express pure, unadulterated _hate_ for the order. He kept mages in his company, you knew. Milana and Dot were subordinates; friends, even, and you knew that Dot had told him horror stories of his time in Montsimmard’s Circle. You hadn’t thought the stories had bothered him quite as deeply as his reaction suggested.

            Daylen simply shrugged, “It matters not any longer. This is a good life.”

            “No. You just don’ know any better,” spat Dand, shaking his head. You removed your hand from the doorframe and decided to just let the warrior and mage duke it out while you spoke to Dagna. It made a good distraction for Dand so he wouldn’t overhear the specifics.

            That didn’t stop you from pulling the dwarf off to the side of the room, however.

            “Are they…?” Dagna trailed off quizzically.

            Waving a hand in dismissal, you gestured to the journal still in her hands, “Let them argue. It’ll keep Dand preoccupied enough that he won’t go eavesdropping.”

            She pondered a moment before nodding and flipping the book in her hands open, “Alright. Was there anything specific you wanted to know? We did research mostly about how magical energies can be taken from Lyrium and why Lyrium is so volatile in its raw form, but there’s a few side notes about how Lyrium is used in crafting and runesmithing.” You shook your head.

            “I apologize for giving you the wrong impression and if my information is incorrect, but heard a rumor that you had been studying a strange type of Lyrium. Is that, by chance, correct?”

            With nothing to touch so as to visually see her reaction, you focused on your other senses. Your sharp ears heard the choppy intake of ragged breathing that usually indicated shock, and also distinctly could make out the increasing _thu-thump…thu-thump_ of her heartbeat. She was panicked about something.

            “N-no. I mean, Lyrium itself can be considered strange, but the only thing we’ve been studying is normal, run of the mill Lyrium!” She spoke too quickly, the words mashing together. Your eyes narrowed.

            “Bullshit.”

            “It was only…” she hesitated for a moment before sighing deeply and seeming to deflate as she leaned against a bookshelf. “I started this research into Lyrium when I was sent a very, very small sliver of it from an unknown person. I had just come back to my chambers after my class on ancient elven civilization and the package was sitting on my desk. I thought it was odd, as all packages in the Circle tower are inspected before they’re given to the recipient, so I think whomever left it for me went in through the window…which doesn’t make sense since it’s on the eighth floor…”

            “Dagna,” you snapped your fingers a few times, effectively drawing her attention back to you. “The shard was in the package?”

            She shook her head as if to clear it, “Y-yeah! It was encased in a thin, runed silverite box, to prevent explosions. The Mining Caste back in Orzammar used them when digging up regular Lyrium, and I recognized the runes. But the Lyrium shard…it was very, very tiny – I don’t know _what_ they really expected me to do with it. It was also _red_.”

            You furrowed your brows, “ _Red_? Lyrium? Is that even possible? You’re sure it wasn’t just…Lyrium-infused pyrophite or something similar?” The name of the foreign metal felt strange on your tongue. That had been another thing that had taken some getting used to upon arriving in Thedas – the different types of materials such as metals and hides.

            “No. I’m positive it’s Lyrium. I tried to study it for a while, but it started… _singing_. I don’t really know how to explain it. I shoved it back into the box it came in and went and asked Daylen for help.”

            “Daylen?” you scowled. “Why not go to the Templars? Or the First Enchanter? Surely they’d be able to figure out some way to handle this stuff safely.”

            She looked down, “I was afraid to. I’m here on the good word of the Hero of Ferelden. She convinced Irving to let me study here, but it’s still probationary. By then I’d had this thing for a couple of weeks. If I reported it to anyone then, I was afraid they’d revoke my grants to study in the Circle. I’m technically a surfacer, casteless. I wouldn’t be able to go back to Orzammar, and if I couldn’t stay in the Circle…”

            “You’d have nowhere to go, I understand,” you finished with a sympathetic nod. If there was anyone who understood having nowhere to go, it was you. “But is there anything else you can tell me about it? Other than that it’s red and… _sings_ …?”

            Dagna seemed to perk up a little bit, “It’s _waaaaaaaay_ touchier than regular Lyrium. The ordinary stuff in its raw form can just explode for no reason, no warning. That’s why the Mining Caste uses the boxes I mentioned. This red version? It was crackling every single time I brought it out of the box. Not ‘ _I’m going to explode’_ crackling, but just…sparking. And…one other thing.”

            The arcanist seemed mildly troubled as she twisted her fingers together, “You know that Daylen’s Tranquil…ordinary Lyrium in small amounts can give off sort of a hum to mages, but Tranquil can’t hear it since they’re blocked from the Fade. Dwarves can’t hear it, either. Ordinary people without magic can sometimes hear it with long enough exposure. It’s disconcerting that I heard it, since I’m a dwarf, but what really gets to me is that Daylen could hear it after a few minutes of being around it.”

            You let out a long breath, hand reaching up to fiddle with your mask absently, “He could…damn. That’s…not good.”

            “I don’t think so, no. I still have the shard, if you’d be interested in looking at it…”

            Crossing your arms, you shifted your weight on your hips inquisitorially, “Is there something you want to ask me, Dagna?”

            “Just…” she gulped. “By your reaction…should I take it that you didn’t send me the shard?”

            “No. I’ve been in the Deep Roads before, but I’ve never come across Lyrium that’s red. Like you said…ordinary, run-of-the-mill blue stuff,” shaking your head caused the stout little woman to sigh a breath of frustration.

            “Sod it…,” she grumbled. “Anyway, my offer still stands. I’d usually say it’s not a good idea, but I don’t think you’d be asking without a reason…”

            Another shake of your head followed. “It’s probably not a good idea with Dand here. I don’t want to expose him to it if it has the effects you’re claiming. Better if it’s only one of us – someone has to be able to run my network if being around this thing turns me batty.” You felt a little relieved when the dwarf chuckled, albeit uncomfortably, at the small joke.

            “Good point. Was there anything else you wanted to know?”

            “I think you covered everything I was hoping for. Thank you, by the way. That took an awful lot of trust to tell me what you did. Just to reaffirm, I meant what I said about not telling anyone unless I have your express permission. The same goes for the information on the Red Lyrium.”

            She frowned, “Why did you want to know about it anyway if you weren’t going to sell it? Not to be rude or anything, I just…”

            “I’m working on a theory of my own. I…I made a mistake. I’m just trying to make sure it won’t happen again. I’m sorry it’s…it’s still a sore subject.” It killed you to admit it, but the destruction of Nirn did still haunt you. Vividly. Usually in the form of nightmares.

            Thankfully, the dwarf nodded, “I understand. Anyway, if that’s all you wanted to know, I can show you and Dand out of the tower. I know a few routes to the entrance not patrolled very heavily by Templars…”

            You smiled widely, “That’d be wonderful.”

            Dand didn’t protest one bit as you dragged him away from the still very heated (at least on his end) argument he was thoroughly engrossed in with Daylen.

* * *

 

 **The rocking of the small rowboat** was soothing to you as you and Dand rowed the dingy quickly across Lake Calenhad under the encroaching light of dawn.

            “I am never under any circumstances comin’ along with you on an infiltration _ever_ again.”

            You laughed at the warrior’s proclamation and responded dryly, “Oh, why Dand. I agree wholeheartedly.”

            And that was that.


	7. Chapter 6

Chapter 6

 “ _Do you remember the day?  
_ _Remember the song?  
_ _Remember how everything went wrong  
_ _when you renewed your faith,  
_ _but you didn’t feel saved?  
_ _You said, ‘_ To be a savior, you’re taking so damn long. _’_ ”

 -One Less Reason, “ _Someday_ ”

* * *

 

**_~Thedas – 9:34 Dragon~_ **

* * *

**You crossed your arms** as you leaned against an extravagantly decorated pillar. The people around you wept and sobbed and bemoaned the sad, _sad_ event that had just befallen Thedas, but you paid them little more than a scoff. Divine Beatrix III had passed – you failed to see the sorrow in it. People died every day. Just because it was a religious leader this time around didn’t mean the whole city of Val Royeaux had to be decked out for the elaborate funeral procession through the streets. _Ridiculous_ , you groused to yourself.

            Of course, you were not stupid enough to be trouncing through the major Orlesian city in full view of its denizens. Surreptitiously cast invisibility and muffle spells, as well as the “just-in-case” invisibility potion you had managed to distill from some local Aloe Vera and wormwood plants ensured that the surrounding Orlesians clad in masks that made your own seem like the finest work of art in all the four eras weren’t aware of your presence along the Avenue of the Sun in the slightest.

            The city _was_ undeniably in mourning, however. You had allowed yourself a glimpse upon entering its gilded Sun Gate and had seen the garishly-painted buildings decked out in Chantry banners and ribbons and streamers that were a horrible contrast of dark color to signify the overreaching depression the Royans – indeed, most all Andrastian Thedosians, you had heard – were currently feeling. The denizens of Val Royeaux were even more ostentatiously dressed than was usual for Orlesians, though you were marginally grateful that all of the outfits you had seen were significantly dulled in color. While even you had to admit that Orlesians (sometimes) had a way with matching hues, it did tend to irritate the eyes after a while. If only, you mused with dull humor, their tasteful decorations when it came to clothing were to be transferred over to their architecture. Then you probably wouldn’t feel the need to compare them with Altmer so much.

            Your senses sharpened when you detected the heightening pitch of wailing that signified the passing of Beatrix’s procession. The woman who was the first-in-line candidate to be the new Divine was presiding over the funerary rites for the deceased priestess. It wasn’t the first time you had witnessed the parade. You could still recall the old Grand Cleric named Dorothea swathed in ceremonial robes and looking all too frail as the fabric seemed almost to swallow her whole. At her side were the Left and Right Hands, surely to be inherited from the dead woman. To her right stood a grievous-looking, dark-haired Nevarran woman in Chantry armor, sword at her waist and shield at her back. Your eyes, rusty as they may have been, still noted that the weapons lacked functionality and were purely decorative pieces. If your information was correct, and it always was, the woman was Cassandra Pentaghast, a Seeker of Truth and a hero to Orlais. You didn’t know the story behind the title, but figured it intriguing and resolved to do some digging while staying in the city.

            The other woman was situated on the Cleric’s left side, quite appropriately as she was the Left Hand. The Orlesian court knew her as Leliana, Lady Nightingale, and just the way she held herself spoke a thousand words. Her gait was soft, subtle yet also firm, and her blue eyes sharp while outwardly appearing lax and despaired. You hadn’t had to put on a public face in a little over four years, but you instantaneously recognized the façade as one worn often by spies.

            The gaggle of thundering Templars and simpering Chantry priestesses that accompanied the corpse and three women at the head of the procession did little to interest you otherwise. They were unimportant. The Chantry had always been on the fringes of your consciousness as a threat to your pseudo-“empire” of information trading. Under Beatrix you had never been too concerned with the religious organization singling out your escapades in the Free Marches. The Divine, you had heard, had been long-afflicted with dementia that had only gotten significantly worse as the years trudged along. Her Hands had been the ones to covertly guide the faithful of Thedas along with the aid of several higher-ups in the Chantry hierarchy. Oh, appearances of every single decision coming from the Grand Cathedral having been made directly by Beatrix had been immaculate with barely a flaw. Rumors, however, would forever be a disease so long as curiosity lingered, and your business thrived on rumors.

            Well, it thrived on rumors only after thorough investigation, of course.

            The Hands, in any case, were deemed the immediate threat. Keeping the masses of Thedas content with the belief that their beloved Divine was firmly in control despite her ailment had been quite the achievement, but also taken much effort and dedication. Searching for an information broker whose network was steadily expanding and was on the fringes of threatening Chantry rule had been on the back burner. Now that it appeared the new Divine would be well enough in mind to perform her duties, you were sure that investigations were going to start stirring.

            The whole thing amused you. To think that you would use your influence any time soon to topple their gods’ damned religion was moronic. You had reach, but not _that_ much reach, barely starting to creep into Ferelden as it was (whispers and secrecy, it seemed, often beguiled the truth). You still understood the concern from a political standpoint. Information brokers did not sell based on moral compass or personal beliefs – at least, _true_ brokers did not. Those that did tended to become regarded as little more than freelance spies. As a broker’s influence spread, so did the fear of their unpredictability. If the wrong people paid the right amount of coin for the right information, it could ignite a very short fuse to a very quick toppling of an empire.

            Or, as was the case, a religious institution.

            Understanding did not imply that you had to like the fact, though, and you would do whatever it took to safeguard your own interests. You knew few, trusted none, and when thrown in a pit of sleeping horkers, it was usually best not to tempt the beast. Thedas was arguably the pit of horkers. Horkers in very gaudy outfits with strange customs and all-around outright hostility to what they didn’t understand. Or…was that just Orlais…?

            _Arkay_ , if you didn’t miss Nirn…

            Still, a bad feeling was stirring in the pit of your stomach, a feeling you knew better than to ignore. There was a look in Dorothea’s eyes that unsettled you, an air about her that screamed determined sophistication. She was Orlesian, you reasoned, and therefore probably knew her way around the mechanics of the “Game” they liked to view their politics as. As you heard rather than saw the procession turn a corner out of sight, you wondered idly if the woman’s determination boded ill or well for Thedas.

* * *

 

**_~Thedas – 9:37 Dragon~_ **

* * *

**Denerim’s market district was in an uproar.**

            You grunted as you narrowly avoided collision with a frantic citizen. A feeling of slight relief washed over you as, in the panic, no one noticed the momentary shimmering fault in your invisibility spell caused by your brief lapse in concentration. Directly next to your right ear, a Chantry sister wailed in shock. You cringed. As much as you loathed admitting it, there _was_ the occasional downside to frolicking around heavily populated areas completely invisible.

            As for what was going on, you were at a loss. You had been curled away in a shady little public courtyard off of the capital of Ferelden’s main thoroughfare, waiting for night to fully fall before beginning your work of establishing a new dead drop. You were minding your own business, for once, and had been lost in thought trying to figure out exactly where in the little square space to plant your symbol of an amaryllis flower when two men passed by the entrance. They had been speaking loudly and appeared in a hurry, worried about _something_. Their words hadn’t really stood out on you until you heard them utter “disaster in Kirkwall”, and you had decided rather quickly after that to find _somewhere_ to go and eavesdrop. You had barely set foot in the market square before the news had started to spread like wildfire.

            Resolve only strengthened, your pace had quickened until you were in about as much of a frenzy as the people lining the city square. Kirkwall was _your_ turf. If something had happened there and you didn’t hear about it before the rest of Thedas, you damn sure wanted to know _why_. Hence why you were fighting your way to the one place you were sure you’d be able to hear any news – the Chantry.

            At least, you were until your invisibility spell timed out and you were forced to duck into an alley.

            Slamming your back uncomfortably onto the slimy brick wall of some odd shop the moment you felt your arm start to become visible, you kept yourself to the shadows cast by a nearby streetlamp as best you could. “Damn it!” You snarled, reaching into one of the pouches at your waist for a potion. The vile tasting liquid made of wormwood and deep mushroom (you’d found the fungus to have qualities similar to other types used to make invisibility potions back in Nirn) would keep you out of sight long enough to find a nice crevasse or shaded rafter somewhere in the Chantry to listen and leave its occupants none the wiser. Before you could pull the phial out of the leather bag and drink it, a very recognizable baritone speaking a very recognizable nickname interrupted your thoughts.

            “Sighs?”

            You froze and whirled around to face the figure that had been moseying his way through the alleyway. What in blazes was he even _doing_ there? “Dand? Well…shit…” From the vague, startled look you saw on his face when you pressed your hand to the wall, you knew he had seen you appear out of thin air just outside the maw of the alley.

            His expression hardened after a moment of staring you down, “Appearin’ outta’ nowhere now? Didn’ know that was in your arsenal o’ tricks, but I s’pose it makes sense.” Commotion behind you all but forgotten, you threw your hands up exasperatedly.

            “Well, now you know. I’m an illegal mage. Are you going to turn me in, Dand? I’ll even save you the time – Templars are that way,” chuckling humorlessly, you jerked a thumb over your shoulder and back the way you had come through the whispering chaos. You didn’t have to see the warrior’s face to know it was grim.

            “You’d be long gone ‘fore I could even yell ‘ _apostate_ ’, you n’ I both know that.”

            You crossed your arms, “Guess you know me too well.”

            Dand replied without missing a beat, “Not well enough, it seems.”

            “Maybe. What are you doing here, Dand? I thought you were working a job in Jader.”

            The warrior pursed his lips, “Was. Got done with it ‘bout a week ago. We were workin’ one on the Wounded Coast. I’m guessin’ you heard about the fiasco in Kirkwall by now?”

            “I was just trying to find a good place to eavesdrop.”

            “Got the skills for it,” he scoffed. You bristled as your anger rose.

            “Stop it,” sourly, you shifted your weight on your hips. “If you’ve got something to say, say it. If you’re going to turn me in, do it. Otherwise, drop the attitude. I’m your employer – I don’t have to tell you every little deep and dark secret about myself, and I sure as salt don’t have to take this from you.”

            A greying eyebrow rose and he let out a little laugh of disbelief, “After four years, Sighs, I’d ‘ave hoped to at least be a smidge trusted, that’s all. You really think I’d turn you in for apostasy? That’d be like me sittin’ there and turnin’ Dot or Milana in. ‘Sides, I ain’t ever heard o’ any mage bein’ able to turn themselves invisible. It all’d scream blood magic to the Chantry – I’d practically be signin’ you over to be executed if I told the Templars.” You narrowed your eyes.

            “How do you know it isn’t blood magic?”

            Dand gestured haphazardly, “Well, y’ don’ have an air o’ death ‘round you. Most blood mages tend to reek o’ death…and blood, come to think of it…” The warrior pondered something for a moment before shrugging in dismissal. “Look, let’s just end this with the general agreement that I ain’t turnin’ you in, and get back to the reason I’m here in the first place.”

            “Alright. Fair enough, we can discuss this later. So, Kirkwall,” you agreed, frowning. “What exactly happened? I was setting up a dead drop when suddenly the whole city’s going crazier than a cat in a room full of yarn. And why am I just now hearing about something happening there? You could’ve sent Beaker.” Thoughts of the black messenger bird belonging to Tegna almost made you grin. As far as Dand had alluded, the dwarf was still unaware that Beaker was actually delivering messages to you and not some fake lover Dand made up whenever he borrowed the bird. The deception almost made you feel proud for the warrior.

Almost. He was still a moron.

            The aforementioned moron decided to lean against the wall opposite you, his orange cuirass and overlarge warhammer scraping against the brick as he did so. “Tried. Guess you were all smoke n’ mirrors an’ he couldn’t find you – came back rather dejected, he did. I think you owe him an apology.”

You stared blankly, “Right. Apologize to a crow. Consider it right up there on my to-do list, directly under you telling me _what in Oblivion happened in Kirkwall_.”

“Alright, alright. Bossy,” Dand rolled his eyes. “Some crazy mage decided to blow up the Chantry – mages started rebellin’ left n’ right. The Knight-Commander decided to take that opportunity to go completely outta’ her mind an’ went after her own Templars. Heard they had to put her down. Half the city’s dead from the explosion and debris, other half’s fightin’ amongst themselves. I even heard on my way here that there’s talk of an Exalted March.”

            Your mind flashed back to when you saw the Grand Cleric who later became Divine Justinia V during Beatrix’s funeral procession three years prior, and the look in her eyes that you had pondered. Furrowing your brow, you felt the dread start to settle. An Exalted March on Kirkwall was about the last thing Thedas needed on top of a stirring mage rebellion.

            “The Champion of Kirkwall,” you said slowly, the name tasting acrid on your tongue. “Where does he fit into all this?”

            Dand raised an eyebrow, “What makes you think that Hawke brat’d ‘ave his nose in this mess?”

            “Dand…that ‘ _brat_ ’ has been at the center of every major shitstorm that’s blown up around that city in the past seven years. I’m ninety-five percent sure that information about the Carta being holed up in that old Warden fortress you got from that job in the Western Approach was bought by one of Hawke’s little friends. I think him being involved somehow is pretty much a given.”

            He looked at you a minute before nodding approvingly, “Well, you’d be right about it. Now, it’s practically pre-rumor an’ not the actual thing, but couple o’ refugees I passed on the road were sayin’ somethin’ ‘bout one Garrett Hawke havin’ sided with the rebel mages. After the fuck up with the Knight-Commander, he and what of his little group survived fled the city. No one’s seen ‘em since.” You rolled your eyes. Of course. You had honestly never heard much about Kirkwall’s Champion – never really cared to, to be honest, but what you had heard had painted the man to be more of a prick than that mage sellsword you’d had the unfortunate pleasure of running into in Riften seven years back. Except, Hawke was at least a _good-intentioned_ prick. But you had found out six months prior that the man had slaughtered the Sabrae clan, had killed the same elves that had taken you in during your moment of weakness. He had killed the clan that you owed for making everything you had become possible.

            So, as far as you were concerned, you had more than every right to hate his guts.

            “Lovely,” you muttered. “The one person who could probably fix this mess not only helped start it, but decided to do a hit-and-run. This is just fucking _peachy._ I can kiss any and all information coming in, out, and going through Kirkwall goodbye.” Shifting the way your mask sat on your face, you ran a hand along the back of your cowl-covered head. You felt the bump of the ponytail you’d haphazardly thrown your blond locks into and absently tucked a mental reminder away to cut your hair as soon as possible. It was starting to get too long to manage with the hood again.

            Dand snorted loudly, “’Course, you don’ give a lick about any o’ the people who _died_ in the commotion. Not very Sighs-like for you to start carin’ now, huh?”

            “Of course not. I’m going to be set back by this a good couple hundred sovereigns,” you said in a matter-of-fact tone, as if the very suggestion otherwise was a personal insult. “Don’t forget that that’s also a good chunk that’s going to be coming _out_ of Bloodlight’s share. It’s only fair, after al.” You had never mentioned to the warrior that Bloodlight’s share of the spoils from your information selling was practically all the coin the Shadow Broker received. After all, what use did one wandering elf have of money save for food that you hunted and foraged for more often than not? There was an inkling of a notion from several lines of previous questioning that Dand had figured out that you had been paying him way more than his share, but the warrior was either too greedy to question it or was perceptive enough to understand that you wouldn’t have done it without a reason. You were fairly certain the case was the latter.

            At the notion of losing his pay, Dand seemed to slump only a margin, “Right. The coin. Maker forbid you ever worry for once about the innocent people who died in that explosion since you don’t _profit_ from it.”

            You rolled your sightless eyes as the two of you fell into a routine of familiar banter that you knew marked the end of any and all serious conversation. That feeling still stayed in the pit of your stomach careless to the light atmosphere that, if you were honest with yourself, was forced that time around. Dread. Kirkwall you just _knew_ in your gut would not be an isolated incident. If the settling dust proved Kirkwall’s Circle successful in staging a rebellion, you knew that others would try to follow their example. And while you, being a mage yourself, wholeheartedly agreed with their reasoning, your business sense was ringing alarm bells about how bad an Exalted March or, gods forbid, a continental war would be for your information system. Dand was at least correct on one count – you really didn’t care much for the innocents, the Templars, or the mages.

            The concerned suggestion that you should be cautious that he uttered before the two of you parted made you realize that you were in just as much danger as any Thedosian apostate, if not more. And that struck a chord of fear in you deeper than you cared to admit.

* * *

 

**_~Thedas – 9:40 Dragon~_ **

* * *

 

 **It was all too simple,** quite unlike everything else that had occurred to you lately. Prey was laid out so enticingly for you, and what made this hunt even sweeter was the fact that the prey actually thought that they were the hunters closing in on their own kill. You licked your lips in anticipation, grip tightening around the hilts of your daggers. Above you, an owl hooted to the starless sky and a cool summer breeze ruffled the canopy of leaves spread by the arching boughs of the Planasene Forest hanging overhead. Crickets chirped from a stream running nearby, and the hum of cicadas almost made you feel like you were back in Cyrodiil.

The thrill of the hunt still made you jittery. Your eyes narrowed out of habit as you heard your target shift slightly. You were close. So close. Only a few more steps and –

            _CRACK-SNAP!_

            “Son of a – !” A whirlwind of action followed that involved a lot of parrying, swiping, stabbing, missing, and punching. Your prey fought back valiantly, and through all of the cursing of your own stupidity that made you step on a dry twig, you had let out a bark of a laugh that probably sounded psychotic in hindsight. You’d always hated it when it was _easy_.

            _Stab!_ The rush of warm blood over your gloved hand as your dagger landed solidly in an elf’s unarmored chest made you grin with satisfaction. Your ears found macabre music in the pained death groan and wet squelch when you drew your weapon back and set about incapacitating your second target. It would prove slightly more difficult, you knew. Your first kill had still been in the midst of confusion your blunder had caused, but fact of the matter was you were dealing with spies. Soldiers would have been better armored. Mercenaries wouldn’t have been caught unawares. Travelers wouldn’t have even registered the twig breaking as a person – they would’ve brushed it off as an animal. Templars would have felt comfortable building a campfire, which your two targets were strangely lacking as the night proved to be chilly. Mages would have set wards even you wouldn’t have been able to avoid triggering. Bounty hunters would have explained no campfire, the sitting in silence, the apt attention they had been paying to the smoke rising from a fire you had set as a decoy, and the handful of snares you had found and subsequently disarmed, as well as the rigged flash bomb meant to momentarily blind the person unlucky enough to trip it about a hundred meters back. That one had amused you – a trap intended to disorient a person visually was utterly useless on someone who was blind.

            However bounty hunters wouldn’t have been quite so secure even in their own campsite as to remove any and all armor. Bounty hunters did their research on their targets before capturing them – they would have known you were a stealth expert before even thinking of coming after you and would have either set better traps or been more alert. Spies were who people sent to gain that kind of information, not act on it. Spies who didn’t know everything about their mark made mistakes. In the case of the two-sans-one in front of you, they had made too many, and they had, very unfortunately for the pair, been fatal.

            Finding an opening and making quick work of the second spy’s hamstring with a few expert slices, you wrenched the lithe human woman’s hands behind her with a force borne of the adrenaline pumping through your veins. She let out a gasped shriek as she was forced to her knees and her bare wrists held in a vice grip. Your right-hand dagger’s razor-sharp, green-tinged edge being held to her throat thankfully silenced her shrill cries to muted whimpers.

            “Who are you,” you whispered in what you hoped came across as an ominous tone, “and who sent you? I’d answer quickly if I were you, unless you want to end up like your friend there.”

            She sucked in a shuddering, gasping breath, soft voice lined with a terror that sent a pang of pity through your heart, “N-no one! W-we…we’re mages from Dairsmuid! We were just trying to find a good place to stop for the night, to stay away from the Templars! We saw the campfire and were trying to decide if it was safe to stay here. Please! You have to believe me!” Your eyes narrowed into the tiniest of slits, ears working furiously to detect a tone in the words that try as you might just _was not_ there.

            “Dairsmuid?” you asked disbelievingly, an eyebrow arching delicately behind your mask. Your dagger dug a little deeper into the girl’s flesh. “The Circle there was disbanded. You’ve no reason to be outside of Rivain, running from Templars – even less of one since the Seekers split from the Chantry and the Templars scattered gods-only-knows-where.”

            Her eyes probably widened, and you could feel her jaw clench, “We were trying to join one of the rebel groups near Kirkwall! Th-they discourage relationships in the Circle, and they take away any child born of a mage! I refused to let that happen to me.”

            You snorted at this, shaking her arms roughly more for your own benefit than to prove a point, “Quit lying. Explain the traps. If you’re really a mage and pregnant like you’re trying to claim, the first thing I’d be doing in your shoes is keeping my ass planted firmly in the city that outlawed the gods damned Circle. I would _not_ , under any circumstances, be creeping around in a forest a half-day’s walk from the most chaotic city in Thedas in terms of mage-templar conflict. So either you’re a moron, which I’m thinking has a good chance of being likely, you’re lying, which I think is even _more_ likely, or both, which I’m thinking is the winner here.”

            She stayed quiet. The jaw muscle situated beneath your wrist jumped with effort, and your sensitive ears could hear the sound of teeth gnashing against teeth. Her heartbeat picked up, a staccato rhythm that caused her breathing to become choppier than it already was. Becoming impatient, you shook her again.

            “Answer me!”

            A hiss of air escaped her nose, “What tipped you?” You smirked.

            “At first, the traps really didn’t seem that drastic. You could’ve just been setting snares to catch some dinner. The flash bomb was a big clue, and then the suspicious lack of warding magic when you claimed to be a mage. I’ve yet to meet a mage who camps in small numbers without placing wards.” Your captive seemed to consider this a moment.

            “You’re good,” she admitted, though it sounded begrudging at best. “Lady Nightingale was right to be cautious about you.”

            You started at this, “Lady Nightingale? You work for the Chantry?”

            “The insignia emblazoned on the tunic didn’t clue you in?” The woman scoffed. You were almost positive that, had she been facing you, the look would have almost been comical.

            Deciding to pass the comment off with a shrug, you said dryly, “It’s dark and this mask is restricting, what can I say? Why were you sent by the Chantry to spy on me? How much have you reported back?”

            You could feel the woman’s face contorting into a sneer, “I’m doing the Maker’s work, that’s all that should matter. Guess a barbarian like you wouldn’t be able to understand that.” _Barbarian_ , you frowned. There were a lot of things you had been called in your twenty-seven years, but “ _barbarian_ ” always seemed to hit you where it hurt. And, of course, by “ _hit you where it hurt_ ”, you meant “ _hit you where it pissed you off_ ”. Royally.

            The dagger was pressed deep enough into the spy’s neck to draw a thin, beading line of blood that you could smell easily in the chilled air, “Tsk, tsk, tsk. I said to answer all of my questions. That’s not an answer – that’s _avoidance_. I should know – I do it, too. You need to remember whose hand’s controlling the deck here, honey. And also remember that I have full sanction to stack it.”

            “We were sent to investigate possible leads on the Shadow Broker,” she growled out, swallowing thickly as if the words poisoned her to say. “Lady Nightingale gave us a profile and said to investigate anyone who matched it. Ash and I have been tailing you since you left Ostwick a week ago.”

            You lessened the pressure on the knife and felt the spy relax the slightest bit once the bite of glass was no longer tapping precariously on her jugular. “Why is the Chantry interested in the Shadow Broker?”

            “I…,” she bit her lip, “I can’t tell you why. We were never told. We were just expected to do our jobs and be gone.”

            “So you have no idea? None at all of why they could possibly want the Broker?” You supposed it could have had something to do with the threat you posed, but you doubted that to be the case. Assassins would have worked far better in eliminating you than spies. The civil war in Orlais was out as you had made it perfectly clear that the Shadow Broker was not about to touch _that_ particular family feud with a ten foot pole made of moonstone. The only thing that remained was Nerys, but the Commander of the Grey had dismissed you from your little side-job of scouting the Deep Roads around six months ago before vanishing practically into thin air. You doubted very much so that the dwarven woman had left anything that could have traced her to you. The Broker’s reputation was clean, as far as underground shufflers were concerned, but an information broker was an information broker. If someone as influential as the Hero of Ferelden got pegged to someone with your infamy, it would not bode well for either of you.

            The spy shaking her head violently left and right brought you out of your musings, “No! I have no idea. The mage-templar conflict, maybe?” You snorted. That you doubted.

            Sighing in an over-exaggerated manner, you leaned closer to the human’s rounded ear, “Very well, then.”

            “Y-you’ll let me go, now?”

            You chuckled and shook your head negatively, “Oh, you know as well as I do that I can’t do that. What if you go back to the Chantry? I’m sorry it has to be this way. I really am. But I can’t leave loose ends – you understand. It’s nothing personal.” She whimpered pitifully as the dagger dug into her neck again. Spies, you mused, were only courageous as long as the shadows could conceal them.

            Before you could add that final bit of pressure and jerk the blade across the woman’s throat, you whispered, “Oh, and another thing that tipped me off? Your accent – it’s Nevarran, not Rivaini.”

            With one clean slice, warm blood gushed onto the forest floor. Once sure she and her partner were well and truly dead, you swiped your weapon a few times on the back of the corpse’s wool tunic before sheathing it again at your waist. Walking away calmly, you whistled a bit under your breath as if you hadn’t just dropped a purple amaryllis flower on the blood soaked ground beneath your two victims.


	8. Chapter 7

Chapter 7

* * *

“ _So I divide the blackened sky_  
to try to find the light.  
It’s been so long.  
I’m still searching for the sun.  
My world is growing numb.  
But I will overcome,  
because I know that I’m right where I belong.  
You think my days are done,  
but I will prove you wrong.  
Because I know that I’m right where I belong.”

 

-The Veer Union, “ _Divide the Blackened Sky_ ”

* * *

 

**_~Thedas – 9:41 Dragon~_ **

* * *

**You kicked a rock out of your way** as you climbed the steep, winding path. The air around you was humid due to the close proximity to the coast and the fact that it was early in Kingsway, barely the end of what had proved to be a sweltering summer. Your mask and hood were practically smoldering on your skin, as well as the long-sleeved black cotton tunic, trousers, and loose boots you wore. Raising a hand to mess with the _oh-so-shockingly_ black dyed strips of samite that swaddled your slim neck, you sourly regretted using the thick fabric for the purposes of hiding the golden skin of your throat. Being honest, the fact that it was durable and enchanted so as to be resistant to tears only made the heat trapped by the cloth slightly more bearable.

            Your hand slipped from the samite to the shoddy serpentstone brooch that was holding the ends of your cowl together and to the front of your tunic, fiddling with it absently as you continued to climb the path one final time that day. Hiking had never been one of your favorite pastimes, but as you held a bundle of dawn lotus flowers in your other hand, you were reminded of why you were suddenly making the endeavor. It had been four years – you had delayed long enough.

            With each step you took, your heart seemed to sink just a little further in your chest. Seeing the half-rotted remnants of the Dalish aravels littered alongside the skeletons of a good half-dozen people on the small area of Sundermount where the camp had been had already pained you. You hadn’t spent long there with the Dalish, maybe only a month, but the time had still meant something to you purely because of the company. The Dalish elves were misunderstood more often than not, but they were good people. They _had_ been good people – the thought made a lump rise uncomfortably in your throat. That was it, though, wasn’t it? Marethari, Ilen, Pol, Fenarel, all of them – they had been good, decent people just trying to abide by their religion, their cultural identity. You glanced down at the flowers clutched in your hands. They had deserved more than the wholesale slaughter that was handed to them.

            Ducking into the cave that led to the top of the mountain, you noted the lack of live spiders and the rotting corpses of the giant arachnids. Hawke’s work, you supposed sourly. You stamped the ire down. It would not spoil the sentiment you were trying to make – not that day, at least. The clan deserved to have their memory honored, purely and not clouded by hate or vengeance. It was the least anyone could do for them.

            You regretted only slightly not having been there. Consciously, you realized that there hadn’t really been anything you could have done. Most likely, if you had been there when Hawke had killed the clan, you probably would have been dead, too. Exactly how events had played out was a bit hazy, but you had gotten the general understanding that something happened with Marethari and the clan attacked, causing the human and his companions to unleash a can of unadulterated wrath. The rumors may have pointed to the elves attacking first, but you liked to think that you had known each of them well enough to understand it wouldn’t have been without reason. Dalish were wary of outsiders, but who could blame them? Outsiders scorned their way of life, often the only way of living they had ever known.

            The Sabrae clan wasn’t the most welcoming of the Dalish, true, but they wouldn’t have attacked unless threatened. So that led you back to the only logical conclusion that it had entirely been Hawke’s fault. You jammed the toe of your boot a little harder than necessary into the small ledge you had to climb to emerge on the other side of the cave.

            The barrier that should have barred the entrance to the graves was absent, and this time you only had Merrill to blame, wherever she was. The field of energy had been erected by Marethari to keep the souls of the ancient, resting elves away from any that may have sought to disturb their slumber, and you knew the only way to undo it without blood magic had only been known by the elder Keeper who had vehemently refused to the one time Merrill had asked. Those in uthenera, she had argued, did not take being trod on lightly. As one remained quiet so as to not disturb their neighbor’s rest at night, the living should hold the same respect for the dead. You remembered Merrill dropping the subject with a somewhat childish pout. She never had elaborated why she had wanted to pass through the graveyard, but you had always suspected Marethari had known the reason.

            Sending silent prayers to Auri-El as you passed each marker was probably a futile endeavor, but you supposed the gesture was more of respect than actually asking your god of time to guard their souls from anything malicious as they wandered to their afterlife, Beyond, or whatever it was that they experienced. Your concept of the gods had been scattered and shredded after your little debacle with the Thalmor that had landed you in Thedas, but old habits didn’t rest easy.

            It wasn’t until you got closer to the altar resting before the cliff face that the mass of fresh graves became apparent. The markers, a little over twenty in all, were small, not nearly as prominent as the ancient ones preceding them, but the designs carved reverently on their surfaces made them all the more special. You had spent the better part of the day and the night before collecting the remains of the clan and giving them a proper burial. Since you had no way of knowing which bones belonged to which elf, you had opted to keep the stones void of such things as names. You had been gone for seven, eight years when they had been killed – a few had probably been born and died in that time, too. The etchings were crude (you were no artist) and had a few sayings in Ehlnofex meant to ward off necromancy, but mostly the images depicted Dalish tales you had recalled Ilen and Marethari telling you in the long hours of the night when your then-newfound disability had hindered your ability to sleep. As you laid a single flower in front of each headstone, every bloom carrying just as much meaning as the last, you allowed yourself to entertain the notion that the two elders would have approved of your choice.

            Placing the last lotus down atop the final, small mound of dirt with a frown, you wondered not for the first time since you had found the camp why the corpses had been left to rot. Though you didn’t know where she was, you knew that Merrill had left the clan shortly after you had, her use of blood magic causing the others to become so hostile, Marethari had urged her to leave out of fear for her safety since the First wasn’t going to give up her use of dark magic without a fight. She had been hanging around with Hawke that you knew of and the book “The Tale of the Champion” that had been circling around said she had fought with him against the Templars and then gone her own way. Merrill, despite her difference in opinion with Marethari, had loved the clan deeply. You couldn’t fathom why she hadn’t immediately returned to administer funerary rights. It just wasn’t like the bubbly, naïve mage you had known all those years ago.

            Sighing, you pushed the thought out of your mind. It didn’t matter. The fact was that Merrill hadn’t returned, for whatever reason, and the deed was done. You lowered yourself to sit cross-legged before the graves, bowing your head and paying your respects once more. A breeze blew, warm and smelling of salt from the Waking Sea almost as if trying to comfort you in your grief. The realization that the emotion was, in fact, sadness welling up behind your eyes didn’t strike you as difficultly as you had thought it would – you did not, after all, make it a habit anymore of becoming attached to people. Friends were too easily lost. Nirn had proven that the hard way. But the Sabrae clan had seemed to weasel their way in soon enough after the disaster, had nurtured you and cared for you in a time when you had been drowning yourself in mourning, confusion, and self-hatred. While it had been subtle and not overt by any means, they had cared for you and you for them. And it seemed that just like with every other important epiphany you tended to have, it took you too long to realize it.

            “ _Hahren na melana sahlin. Emma ir abelas. Souver’inan isala hamin. Vhenan him dor’felas. In uthenera na revas,_ ” you whispered, recalling the eulogy Marethari had taught you when you had inquired about their funerary customs out of curiosity. The words were elegant, and their translation was just as beautiful. “ _Vir sulahn’nehn. Vir dirthera. Vir samahl la numin. Vir lath sa’vunin._ ” Your voice broke on the last word, and it wasn’t until a sob heaved forth and you felt a heavy wetness under your mask that you noticed you were crying. A shuddering gasp tore from your throat. The grief was crushing, you observed absently. Your heart constricted painfully in your chest, and you raised a hand to clutch uselessly at the fabric over where the muscles furiously beat against your ribs. The pain, raw and emotional, was something you hadn’t felt since before Nirn.

            You hadn’t _really_ allowed yourself to grieve after appearing in Thedas. The months had been spent hating yourself for making a mistake, of all things. It had been spent hating the Thalmor, the gods, the Godhead – you had been angry, though you really couldn’t fault yourself for it. But of all the wildly untamed emotions you had felt during that time, sorrow had been the one least virulent. You had pushed it down, deemed it of no use to you, and buried yourself into your work, and for what? To return and find the only people that had helped you and accepted you for whom you were in Thedas dead, slaughtered for a reason you were probably never going to know?

            It was quick. For a moment, the memories of the clan raced and blurred together before morphing into memories of the people you had known before. Jarl Idgrod, Falion, Undilar, Agni, the Stormcloak soldier you had been seated next to when you had gotten caught up in their skirmish with the Empire – everything from the beginning to the end flashed in front of you. _Too quick, too much_ , you were dimly aware of thinking somewhere in the back of your mind as your breath started to come to you in gasps. No matter how much air you sucked in to your greedy lungs, it wasn’t enough. Were you even breathing? You didn’t know. It hurt. You were starting to become dizzy –

            As soon as it started, it stopped. A sense of calm enveloped you, and you realized that you had shifted to your hands and knees, gloves caked with dirt where your fingers had dug unrelentingly into the earth, trying vainly to find purchase. Some tears had slipped to the bottom edge of your mask and dripped forlornly onto the soil. You pondered the image of it behind your eyes. It had been so long since you had seen your own tears – it gave you a sort of morbid feeling of fascination.

            “Well, now. What have we here? Someone come to pay respects to the departed? That’s something that hasn’t happened in a while.” You started. The voice came out of nowhere – you hadn’t heard footsteps or any other indication of there being another person in the area. Your emotions had been too haywire. The feeling of Aedric magic suddenly hit you like a brick wall, and you knew instantly that your sense of calm hadn’t been naturally evoked.

            Quickly rising, your hands embarrassingly fumbled with your daggers as you whirled around on your intruder, “Who are you?” You cursed the lack of anything close to you that you could conspicuously touch to try and see. The person was female, if the voice counted for anything, and older. She had to have a sleight build to be able to sneak up on you, or possibly she was using the magic you could practically _smell_ radiating off of her. You gripped your dagger tighter.

            “I have many names,” she said evasively, following up with a knowing chuckle that put you even further on edge. “You’d be one to know, wouldn’t you girl?” You froze.

            “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” you bit out defensively.

            The woman laughed, and you momentarily thought her insane, “Names are pretty, but useless all the same. Call me Flemeth, if it pleases you. The Dalish sometimes refer to me as Asha’bellanar. Either will do, though I must wonder what you would like me to call _you_.”

            Your eyes widened, but you tempered your shock. You had certainly heard about the woman. While the Dalish revered her as a long-lived, almost god-like being, you had never been so sure. The power around her also helped cement your opinion of her into one of wary caution.

            “I’d _prefer_ you not address me at all until you tell me why you’re here,” you replied finally. You winced when your voice wavered a bit.

            There was a moment of silence as Flemeth seemed to think for a moment, “Your caution may serve you well in the days to come, but take care not to let it rule you.”

            You growled a little, “That’s not an answer.”

            Flemeth laughed again, probably raising an eyebrow, “It isn’t? Answers are in everything, if one looks deep enough.”

            “You’re being cryptic and I don’t have time for it,” you accused.

            “Yes, yes, time _is_ of the essence,” acquiesced the witch quickly, but something was shoved into your hands before you could question what she meant. “I place this in your care until a time I deem appropriate to come and retrieve it. You teeter on the edge of a cliff – this will be your safety net when the time comes.”

            You prided yourself on being a fairly articulate mer. Really, you did. That still didn’t stop you from tilting your head towards your hands for a moment and turning your gaze back towards Flemeth confusedly, “…huh…?”

            She probably gave you an amused look you could almost feel, “The characters have aligned, dear girl. And as the play began, imagine my shock to find you have rewritten the script. I have a vested interest in your success. As for the bauble, little flower – do take care not to lose it. It’s a…family heirloom.”

            Without another word, you heard her take a few steps, a rush of air laden thickly with magic, and then the beating of… _wings_? Very _large_ wings, if you were hearing correctly. Was she a shapeshifter? Once you heard the… _whatever_ she had turned into fly out of your sensory range, you glanced down at the piece of jewelry in your hands, placing your fingertips to the metal. Silverite was the first thing you noticed. A large circular brooch about maybe an inch in diameter, inlaid with a cracked amethyst. You ran a finger over the deep gouge that stretched diagonally from the top right to the bottom left quizzically, wondering why a damaged gem was used for the pin before dismissing it. The whole encounter you had just experienced was probably one of the strangest things to have ever happened to you. A piece of jewelry made with poor-quality gemstones didn’t even make the list of weirdness.

            Flanking the larger circle were two smaller ellipses on either side. They both were a solid silverite and about a half the size of the main one, completely devoid of markings. It was very…simple. Too simple, almost. Cautiously, you sent a spark of magic into it. There was no reaction, and you nearly tossed the pin off the mountainside then and there.

            Suddenly, something seemed to explode from behind you.

            “What in Oblivion?!” You sucked in a surprised breath as a powerful wave of too-pure magic accompanied by a thunderous roar actually caused you to stumble. You hissed as you felt it burn against your back, leaping around and scrambling to your knees to touch the ground in case there was something to see. At first, you worried that sending the magic into the pin had been a bad idea, but upon further inspection, you realized that the wave of magic had actually come from somewhere to the southwest. _Far_ to the southwest, you evaluated, and whatever it was, it was centered on the sky. Of course it would be the one thing you couldn’t see since you couldn’t touch it. You grumbled obscenities to yourself.

            Taking one last glance down at the brooch in your hand, you decided quickly to just stuff the thing into a pouch before scurrying your way back down the mountain. Whatever had happened spelled trouble, and, naturally, where there was trouble, you were going to go investigate.

            Almost like magic, your conversation with Flemeth was pushed to the back of your mind. You never realized as you took off towards Kirkwall that the witch had called you a nickname you hadn’t heard in decades.

* * *

 **Justinia was dead.** Then entire village of Haven was frantic and alight with simultaneous bustle and mourning, but unlike when Beatrix III had passed, you completely understood the commotion. Divine Justinia hadn’t just died; she’d been murdered at her own Conclave. A Conclave swarming with Templars, mages, mercenaries, and Chantry clergy and historians – and only one person had walked out of the explosion alive. You had snuck into Haven’s Chantry and had found a perch atop a rafter, invisibility spell cemented in place as you eavesdropped. From what you understood, the Conclave had been called in an attempt to settle the feud between the mages and Templars, and the peace talks had only barely begun when a massive explosion had ensued. The Veil that separated Thedas from the “Fade” had torn and left a gaping hole in the center of the sky above where some Temple had been located. The blast that had caused it had been what you felt all the way across the Waking Sea on Sundermount. If the sheer force behind it had been staggering that far away, you understood wholeheartedly why you had passed several massive, ancient trees close to the small Fereldan village that had been toppled like twigs.

            All of the major players in the Chantry, every single cleric who could have potentially replaced Justinia, had perished in the blast, which begged the question of who had caused it and why. A chaotic Chantry would have benefitted any number of people, and the handful of officials who had reported to Haven to attempt to sort out the mess of the newly-dubbed “Breach” seemed as unsure as you as to where to point first. You yourself had several theories simmering in the back of your mind. They ranged anywhere from the obvious mages or Templars, to the unsure possibility of Tevinter involvement, to the search for horrifying-yet-thankfully-resoundingly-absent signs of potential Thalmor influence, but you needed more information to be sure.

            You needed to see this Breach up close and personal, feel the magic pouring out of it and see if you could feel any traces of Daedric energies. Thalmor involvement was what you feared the most despite not having found one scrap of evidence in your eleven years of digging that even suggested any other people from Nirn had been… _pulled_ to Thedas.

            Paying little attention when the Divine’s Left Hand passed underneath your hiding spot and exchanged a few words with the terse-faced Right Hand, you began to shimmy your way silently down the stone columns with practiced ease. As your booted feet soundlessly touched the floor, the two women disappeared through the door you had deduced led to the cells beneath the building, undoubtedly intending to go and question their survivor. You were skeptical if the man had really been the cause of the explosion. From what you’d heard, he had emerged from a Fade Rift near the Temple and collapsed, some strange mark on his hand sparking and spreading in time with the Breach. Sure, it _seemed_ suspicious, but you had a strong feeling that it was all circumstantial evidence. Deep in your gut, you just _knew_ that there was more going on than met the eye and that thought in and of itself caused you to hesitate for the briefest seconds. Questioning your decision to become involved only momentarily, your falter lasted barely a breath before you were confidently gliding over the snow-covered paths towards the base of the mountain where you knew the few relief forces had scrambled to establish a camp. If the sky ripping apart was able to be felt as far away as Kirkwall, and if minor tears spewing _demons_ , of all things, kept appearing at random all across the continent like you’d heard hinted, you knew that it spelled trouble for _everyone_. That included you and your information network and your determination to figure out why you hadn’t died eleven years ago that you were still no closer to solving than you had been the day you work up in that forest.

            _Looking out for your own interests_ , you reminded yourself. That was all it was.

            Still, you had to wonder when _looking out for your own interests_ had somehow morphed to _look into potentially saving a world you didn’t even belong to from an insofar very twisted yet eerily similar version of the Oblivion Crisis_. Fate, it seemed, was strange no matter the world.

            It wasn’t particularly difficult to dodge through the throngs of people running between Haven and the forward camp, but you had a few close calls where your invisibility spell had wavered between castings and elicited an odd look from several soldiers and even a short dwarf speaking to a vallaslin-less elf you passed on one of the many bridges. The short, beardless rogue had given the space of wavering air a curious look, but thankfully not mentioned it to his mage companion. Your spells were undetectable to most Thedosian mages in a passive sense, but if a mage was actively looking for something out-of-the-ordinary, you had found they could find you fairly easily. On your end, you supposed it was one of the benefits to being versed in illusion magic – your magic unconsciously tried to hide itself.

            Thankful for having not run into any demons, you reached the camp without further incident and immediately made a bee-line towards where several maps and stratagem were decorating a rickety wooden table. You had to avoid the male chancellor who was pouring over the information and relaying orders with a haughty tone, but once he had moved away to take care of some problem that had been brought to his attention, you made your move. Ghosting your fingertips over the various pieces of parchment, you frowned as you deciphered the dwarven runes Thedas used for most of their writing slowly. There was a main path up to the Temple where an army was apparently holding their own, and there was a little-known, more roundabout path that cut through a mountain that had once been a mining shaft. Scouts had been sent through, and from the conversation buzzing around you, they’d lost contact with them half a day ago.

            You traced the path highlighted on the map several times, committing it to memory. It was a bit of a hike, but you felt you could manage it. If you were already investigating the Breach, you didn’t see why you shouldn’t investigate a handful of missing scouts, as well. It was, after all, on the way.

            Choice made, you darted off of the bridge and began scurrying your way through the thick blanket of snow, grateful you had a decent sense of direction. It was hard for you to “see” with how loosely the snow had packed together, and you shuddered to think of where you possibly would have ended up without being rather positive you were heading in a more eastward direction. You were about three-quarters of the way up the mountainside, however, when you were abruptly thrown backwards.

            Poorly stifling a yelp of pain, you smoothly transitioned your wild flailing into a back flip as your invisibility spell faltered and died. There was an inhuman roar accompanied by the bubbling of a harsh, tainted version of Aedric energies. The feeling you were getting wasn’t quite Daedric, but more as if someone had twisted Thedas’ magic into a powerful bastardization of its previous, pure form.

            _A demon_. The thought hit you with a groan of exasperation. You had been so damn _close_ to making it to the Breach without meeting one of the fiends, too. Drawing a dagger, you dodged a clumsy hit from the creature you were suddenly fighting that sent snow and rocks flying in every direction. You whirled so you were behind the creature, grateful that you tentatively could sense only one, and firmly grasped at where you estimated its shoulder to be.

            “Oh gods, gross!” you cringed as the texture of the skin beneath your glove was the first thing that registered, before that revulsion was increased tenfold by the image of the creature that blossomed behind your eyes. If _that_ was a demon, you could have very easily gone the remainder of your life never having seen one. It looked almost as repulsive as a falmer. The thing was sinewy, ropy muscles hidden beneath leathery skin that was somehow also slimy to the touch. The term “oily shadow” was the first thing that came to mind, and you felt it appropriate. Straps of a thick, dark, hide-like material you were not interested in accurately identifying draped around its form and held something akin to tattered robes about its body. Its hands tapered into five long, thin, claw-like appendages you were hesitant to call fingers. Fingers as a whole did not look like they could rip someone’s face off.

            The hunched head, if you could even call _it_ that, was what got to you the most. Its face was small and skeletal, almost, and made of the same skin as the rest of its body while the hide-like material was draped loosely on top of it like a hood. Its eyes glowed ethereally, promising something horrifying to any foolish enough to get in its way.

            _Nope_ , you thought grimly as you brought your dagger around to stab it in the shoulder. _Nope, nope, nope, nope, nope. I’m a moron for getting involved in this…whole bloody heaping pile of everlasting_ NOPE _…_

Hissing at the uncomfortable ringing in your ears when the thing screeched in pain, you felt the sentiment double. You were a moron. There was a nice, cozy little cave you knew of near Cumberland you could probably run to and hide in until the whole sky-hole thing blew over. Screw playing hero –

            _CRUNCH!_ Blinking, your head tilted down habitually to where your right arm was hanging limply. The pain radiating from your collarbone was dull, but you knew that was just the adrenaline keeping you from sensing it for the time being. The demon roared in victory, bringing its hands up again for a second blow that you deflected with an absentminded warding spell, still transfixed with your shoulder. Your _broken_ shoulder – the dismay the demon screamed with when its attack was hindered by your magical defense was _nothing_ compared to the irritation boiling in the pit of your stomach. Your face fixed itself into a scowl that put the eternal one etched on your mask to shame.

            The thing had broken your gods-damned collarbone!

            Drawing your second dagger with your good arm, you let your ward fall before expertly dodging around the creature’s next blow and landing one of your own where its heart should have been…if it even had one. It appeared that it did, though, as it fell over dead with the rush of cold, bubbling, greasy blood that covered your left hand when you retrieved your weapon. Your face contorted, upper lip curling back as you held your blood-soaked hand out in front of you as if bringing it any closer to your body would poison you. A grunt rose from the back of your throat. You shook the excess liquid from your hand and dagger as best you could.

            “Never should’ve even gotten out of bed this morning…,” you grumbled to yourself, lowering slowly to the ground and using the snow untainted by blood to clean what of the oily substance remained. Once your weapon and arm were satisfactorily clean, you hunted for your other dagger which you had dropped when the demon had struck you and sheathed it deftly. Now all that remained was your shoulder. A healing spell centered on the fractured bone that was actually protruding from your shoulder made quick work of it, though the feeling of the bone shifting and knitting itself together, followed by muscle and skin sealing made you grimace. The sensation never _hurt_ , per se. It just felt rather odd and always tended to deplete your magika reserves a great deal. Recovering quickly from magika deprivation came with being Altmeri, but you still never liked the vulnerable feeling having no mana gave you.

            You skirted around the demon blood, corpse having disintegrated back into the Fade, and continued the short distance towards where the ladders to the mine’s entrance hung precariously. As your luck would have it, they were drenched in snow and you couldn’t feel your fingers by the time you had completely scaled their entirety.

            You hated snow with a burning passion.

            More demons akin to the one you had fought on the mountainside were scattered through the caverns, but knowing how they liked to attack made it easier for you to avoid their blows. The decision to forego invisibility was somewhat a painful one, but you had reasoned that calling on your (admittedly weak for your race) highborn power to regenerate your magika just to cast one spell was somewhat redundant. Adding in the possibility that you didn’t know exactly _where_ in the pass the scouts were cemented the choice. If you were going to help them, showing your face was the least you could do, and you knew it would be strange if you suddenly appeared out of nowhere.

            It actually didn’t take you too long after stumbling across several corpses to find the scouts that had survived admirably holding their own against a Fade Rift that was spewing demons quicker than you could count. For every one that was cut down, you observed at least two taking its place. They were hopelessly outnumbered as you joined the fray with a flurry of finely-tempered glass.

            “Who’re you?!” The voice of the lead scout shouted over the falmer-esque shriek of a tall, lanky green demon that looked almost like someone had taken a bunch of tree roots and just stuck them together into something vaguely humanoid and given it far too many eyes.

            You didn’t spare the woman a glance as you narrowly parried a blow meant for a young male scout whose knees were trembling worse than a newborn calf’s, “Someone taking time out of her day to save your ass from the freaky demon-spewing tear in space-time! Quit complaining. Soon as there’s a lull, take your men and get out of here! I’m backup, but I’m not an army.” She shouted something in agreement, but you barely acknowledged it as you had to leap out of the way when one of the green things swiped an agile limb at you. It let out a terrifying cry again, this one sounding almost like the whirl of a Dwemer automaton before it…disappeared? You didn’t have much time to ponder it when another of the shadowy demons from earlier came up behind you and tried giving you a good thump on the back. How in Oblivion had it managed to completely drop off of your sensory radar? It just crouched like it was going to jump, and then - !

            For the second time that day, you fell flat on your back as a swirl of tainted magic erupted below you only seconds before the demon reappeared with a victorious wail that sent your head spinning, “Xarxes’ bloody beard, what the - ?! Oh that is _so_ not fair!” You were covered in demon guts, bruised, drained, and really wanted a nap, not to suddenly discover that demons had the ability to vanish and then reappear directly under you at will. To say you were pissed would have been an understatement.

            “Yeah, the terror demons do that!” snorted one of the scouts. Between rolling out of the way of a blow from said terror demon and attempting to stab it in the leg, you sent an angry scowl his way. _No shit, genius_ …

            Finally managing to land a hit where its heart should have been, you yelled, “Would’ve been nice to know that before it jumped me…literally!” A muffled “Sorry!” was your response and you rolled your eyes.

            Once the higher-level demon was gone, the remaining shadowy ones and ghost-like wraiths seemed to be drained of their resolve, as they went down quickly. No more spewed from the Rift, but you could feel the magic swirling and pulsing. It was preparing for something big.

            Turning to the scout leader, you choked out, “Go on! Get out of here – the path back to the camp should still be clear! I’ll cover you.” She looked at you for barely a heartbeat.

            “Thank you,” she muttered before quickly gathering the remainder of her scouts and scurrying back the way you had come. You yourself hurried over to the ladder that led down to the Temple, albeit at a slower pace. Once you heard the scouts disappear into the mine, you gripped the wooden construct just as the Rift’s tainted magic gave a warning pulse. With no one too close to bother it, you theorized that much like with a bee, the tear wouldn’t lash out unless provoked. You had done the best you could do without actually closing it and that wasn’t an endeavor you had any inclination to try your hand with. Your teeth gnawed at your lower lip as your gaze turned in the direction where the entrance to the mine would have been visible could you see.

            Still…

            Purple and black magic swirled in your palm almost instinctively, and the rush of conjuration magic that rolled over you along with the oddly combined scent of lilac incense and sea air was one of the most comforting things you had sensed in a long while. You couldn’t help the small smile that spread across your face at the euphoria that came with being momentarily immersed in your element. The larger summoning orb crackled and whirled, though it was still quieter than the Rift’s hissing, before your familiar appeared in the area in front of you. Familiars, you knew, took the form of an animal the caster was most comfortable working with. That tended to be a dog or a wolf, canines being the most recognizable for many mages to interact with. You, however, had grown up a Dominion citizen. Birds were commonplace as pets for many young Altmer, and so your familiar took the form of a translucent crested eagle.

            The exact form had always marginally confused you, as the particular breed was not one you had ever had much contact with, but eagles had always been a type of bird you had admired as a child. Though she was faded and colorless, you knew that had your familiar been real, she would have had gorgeous inky feathers with white on the underside of her wings and a stripe of the pale color across her tail feathers. Her piercing, predatory eyes would have been a striking, rich golden, accented by the plume of charcoal feathers that crested the top of her head. Her wingspan was small for her breed, around forty-five inches across, however Nia proved to be small for a crested eagle. Or, well, a _projection_ of one, you amended.

            Knowingly, the bird didn’t make a sound and settled for staring you down as she shifted slightly in the snow. As it was since becoming blind, you couldn’t _actually_ see her since she technically wasn’t able to touch or be touched, but Nia was an impression of your own magic, your own soul. You knew what she was doing about as well as you knew what your left arm was doing.

            “Follow the scouts, discreetly,” you mumbled, knowing the order was unneeded but feeling more confident voicing it. “Make sure they reach the forward camp without incident, then dismiss yourself. Do _not_ , under any circumstances, allow yourself to be seen.” It was not a tall order. The paleness of the surrounding area all but ensured that the familiar would be hard pressed to be sighted beyond the contrasting darkness of the mine. She trilled in acknowledgement before spreading her hazy wings and hopping soundlessly into the air. Nia was completely silent as she glided away towards the mineshaft, and you found yourself grateful the summon hadn’t lost any of her stealth in the seven years it had been since you had called on her for recon. Technicalities had required you stop summoning the bird, and while the thought that her skills would have ended up rusty was completely illogical as she was merely a projection, you worried anyway. Nia being seen never ended well.

            She was useful, sure, but the panic incited by Thedosians seeing what had once been colorfully dubbed a “demonic bird-ghost” tended to render any information gathering…difficult.

            Sighing, you grasped the ladder once more and slid down its length carefully, doing so once more with the second and final one before cautiously sprinting down the wooden walkway. The snow-covered stone steps that you came across reminded you only barely of the steps that led up to High Hrothgar, but you pushed the thought away as soon as it appeared. It would do you no good.

            When you got close enough to the rocks jutting out of the earth, you had to pause before you ran your hand along them in an attempt to see. Their very presence screamed Aetherial magic, the air so saturated with it that it burned your lungs slightly to inhale. You grit your teeth and pressed a hand to the rock anyway, not shocked to see the green swirling along with the dark stone.

            What _did_ shock you, however, was the slight, blurry glow of red you saw faintly off in the distance when you swung your eyes around to survey the area. You froze, recognizing the feel from the one time around two years prior you had allowed Dagna to present you with her red lyrium shard. One question flew through your mind as you ripped your hand away and darted off down the path towards the Breach.

            How in _Oblivion_ had red lyrium, something so rare you had only ever seen a tiny sliver of it, appeared in such a copious amount so near to the site of a massive, devastating explosion? Why was it there, above ground, where none had ever been previously? You were feeling so much of it in the area, hearing its sparking crackle around you, cringing against the tainted _evil_ that pressed so harshly against your skin. You stumbled once, and the fact was only due to the oppression of the magic leaking out of the Breach and the maliciousness you felt from the mineral. Until that moment, you hadn’t realized just how weak being surrounded by the combined energies of both made you. You felt pathetic.

            You reached a crumbling stone banister and gratefully slumped against it, breath coming in pants as you struggled to hold on to consciousness. Swallowing thickly, you forced your own magic to settle just under your skin, a desperate move you wouldn’t have tried had you not felt like you were going to pass out. It alleviated the pressure only slightly, but it was enough for you to force yourself to gain some semblance of composure.

            The Breach was clearly not Daedric in origin. Had it been, your reaction to the Aedric magic pouring out of it wouldn’t have been so severe, tempered by the familiarity of the chaotic energy. Your hands clenched around the stone railing so tightly you were sure your knuckles were white under your gloves. That fact alone meant you had no further business within the ruined temple. It was not something you could help with. You could leave.

            A hazy outline of the ruins formed thanks to your skin against rough stone, and the green glow that bathed everything made your breath catch. The sight of broken walls and utter devastation that met you weakened the resolve you were trying to build and you leaned more against the rail than you were previously. A voice in the back of your mind that you thought had been silenced after Nirn’s destruction whirled to life, whispered incessantly at you that you could help. Maybe you yourself couldn’t fix it, but you could be a key factor into sealing the hole in the sky and catching the monster who would dare try and rip a world asunder. You started at the conclusion that doing such was the intention of creating the Breach, but the shock of the illogical conclusion barely registered and it was enough. The voice (your _conscious_ , you almost snorted) reminded you gruelingly that you had failed Nirn. You could not allow yourself to fail Thedas as well, not when you could _help_.

            “ _Now is the hour of our victory…_ ” a rich voice rang out from seemingly nowhere, causing you to jump and look around bemusedly. You didn’t quite know why you looked – habit, perhaps – as you could tell by the otherworldly resonance that struck through the baritone that the words were projected.

            The decidedly male monotone sounded again, “ _Bring forth the sacrifice_.”

            “…What in…?” you trailed off, a quizzical look on your face under the mask. Staying frozen, you tried to analyze what could possibly be going on, but only gathered that the half-sealed Breach was pulsing with energy before each sentence.

            “ _Keep the sacrifice still…_ ” The voice sent shivers down your spine that had nothing to do with the pulsing of Thedas’ magic. Sacrifice…there was more going on than met the eye, and you damned your curiosity for wanting to find out more.

            You barely registered feeling that Nia had successfully seen the scouts back to the camp and dismissed herself before an Orlesian accented, feminine voice called out that you unfortunately recognized, “ _Someone, help me!_ ” Your blood ran cold. That had been Divine Justinia. The very much _dead_ Divine Justinia – you recognized her voice from the few times you had been in Val Royeaux when she had been conducting a ceremony or something of the sort that involved her speaking publicly. If you were hearing the Divine…

            …then you were hearing what had happened to the temple…

            Shuddering again, you forced yourself to stand up straighter. Sensitive ears caught the sound of fighting somewhere in the direction behind you where you knew a handful of troops were trying to hold off some of the demons spawning from minor rifts. Your brow furrowed in shock when you felt an area dripping with tainted magic…vanish. No, not vanish, _heal_ , and it unnerved you.

            It wasn’t until several sets of footsteps approached behind you and stopped dead around twenty minutes later (during which the strange… _memory loop_ , for lack of a better term, had repeated itself thrice) that you remembered the Chantry’s prisoner had been found with a mysterious mark on his hand that seemed tied to the Breach. Dulled hope bloomed in your chest for a moment. Maybe…if those smaller tears had been closed, then just _maybe…_

No…hope was too far at the moment to reach for blindly. Your lips twitched at the irony of the statement.

            “Who are you?!”


	9. Chapter 8

Chapter 8

* * *

“ _Out flew the web and floated wide-_  
The mirror crack’d from side to side;  
‘The curse is come upon me, _’ cried_  
The Lady of Shalott.”

-Alfred, Lord Tennyson, “ _The Lady of Shalott_ ”

* * *

 

**_~Thedas – 9:41 Dragon~_ **

* * *

**“Who are you?!”** exclaimed a voice you knew to belong to Justinia’s Right Hand, Cassandra Pentaghast.

            You turned slightly, keeping one hand clenched around the banister only marginally for support and taking in the people standing almost shell-shocked behind you. You couldn’t see them clearly, but could make out the female warrior’s distinct silhouette, along with a tall human male wielding a long sword, shield on his back. A shock of chestnut hair fell into eyes that you couldn’t see well enough to determine the color, peach toned skin contrasting with the shade of brown atop his head. He wore armor over some sort of green coat, but the details you couldn’t discern. Accompanying the two were the dwarven rogue with the crossbow and barefaced elven mage you had passed earlier. An eyebrow lifted in amusement at the two, but you didn’t comment.

            The human man spoke up first, “She’s not one of yours I take it?”

            “No,” Cassandra ground warily. “We have not sent anyone up here. I will ask again – who are you?”

            “Consider me a…well, an _interested third party_. You can call me Lys,” you said slowly, second-guessing the name you gave only after it was too late to take it back. “Tell me. I came across some scouts that had been sent through a mountain pass not far from here. They were fighting rather fiercely with a Rift, and I helped them until there was a lull in the flow of demons spewing from the accursed thing. Did they make it back to the camp okay?” You already knew the answer, but you were hoping inquiring to the woman would be an olive branch, so to speak.

            It didn’t seem to be, as she tensed her grip on her sword, “ _You_ _saved_ our missing scouts? I am not aware of them contacting the camp. You could be lying.”

            “You didn’t let anyone outside know about them, right?” asked the dwarf. “The fact she knows means she could just as easily be telling the truth as lying, Seeker.”

Cassandra shot him a dirty glance, “It could still be fabricated.” Your eye twitched involuntarily. The woman seemed about as paranoid as you were, and that was saying something; you by yourself gave a whole new meaning to the word “paranoia”.

Sweat beaded your brow as the Breach gave another pulse. Your magic still swirled underneath your skin, but you had tempered the flow once the group had approached in hopes that it would make it less noticeable. Had your left hand not been gripping the rail and your right not pressed against your thigh, you were sure the limbs would have been shaking.

            “You’re here! Thank the…Maker…,” a female voice trailed off, unsure. You could barely make out the form of the Divine’s Left Hand along with a small contingent of scouts coming up to a stop behind Cassandra’s group and fought back a groan. _Sure, the more the merrier_ , you thought sarcastically.

            You heard the dwarf mutter something under his breath as Cassandra spoke in clipped tones, “Leliana. Did those scouts in the pass make it back to camp?”

            The Orlesian woman paused for a moment before answering dazedly, “Yes, actually. I just received word that the survivors arrived. We lost a few, but the Lieutenant said that a masked woman arrived and helped them with a Fade Rift they ran into until it was safe for them to make their way back. According to her, if that woman had not arrived, they would most likely be dead.”

            The dwarf suddenly scoffed wryly, “She certainly looks like she had a run in with demons.”

            “Yes. Unfortunately, I have the feeling it’s going to take me ages to wash the demon blood off the mask,” you chuckled. “Anyway, do you believe me now? I think it safe to say that if I wished you harm, I would have attacked by now.”

            Leliana stepped forward to stand beside Cassandra, motioning her men to stay where they were, “If not to harm, then why are you here?” Gathering up the strength, you shuffled silently to the side and gestured up to where the Breach was looming precariously in the air.

            “That,” you said dryly. “I was in the Free Marches when this thing exploded, and I could feel the shockwave all the way across the Waking Sea. I’m curious – _concerned_ even, if you want to take it that far. Add in the fact that it’s regurgitating demons, and I think you can get the general idea of why I wanted to check it out.”

            “Impressive that you managed to slip past the defenses set up on the way here,” the elf finally spoke. Your brow furrowed immediately at the curiously _Dalish_ accent that lined the rich tenor of his voice. He had no vallaslin…perhaps he had left his clan before receiving them? The man _was_ a mage, and you knew what clans… _encouraged_ their mages to do once the clan’s capacity exceeded three of magical talent. Most managed to make it as mercenaries, but the air about him did not scream one particular to combat. He struck you more as a scholar. Not many Dalish apostates separated from their clans tended to focus much on study, so he was a decided oddity…or a threat, you couldn’t quite decide which.

            Shaking the ponderings from your mind to be addressed another time, you shrugged offhandedly and made a dismissive sound in the back of your throat, “You should tell your men to be more alert, then. I walked right in front of them and they never noticed a thing.” You decided to let them assume you were using a metaphor instead of that you actually _had_ walked right in front of the Chantry soldiers…

            The human suddenly guffawed in laughter and slapped the dwarf on a low-standing shoulder, “Ha! She probably slipped right by you! Eyes need checking, Varric?”

            Varric? You frowned. That name sounded familiar…you couldn’t quite place it, though...

            Cassandra growled, “Enough! This blathering is pointless. Leliana, have your men take up positions around the temple.” The redhead hesitated for barely a second before nodding gravely and turning on her heel. A few hand motions that you couldn’t clearly discern had the contingent of rogues and warriors behind her scrambling cautiously into action. Archers perched themselves precariously on railings and crumbling pillars so quickly you were actually impressed at their effectiveness.

            Turning back to face the mass of energy tumultuously swirling in the sky, you heard Varric give a humorless chuckle, “Come to think of it, the Breach is a _long_ way up…”

            “This is your chance to end this,” said Cassandra sternly to her prisoner. “Are you ready?”

            The human let out a hiss of air from between his teeth, “I…I’ll try, but I don’t know if I can reach that, much less close it…”

            “No. This Rift was the first, and it is the key. Seal it, and perhaps we seal the Breach,” the elf’s tone was grim.

            “I’m game to help, if you’ll let me,” you said. “I know my way around a dagger.”

            Cassandra appraised you briefly before nodding resolutely, “Alright. Do not make me regret allowing you to help.”

            “Err…right, sure thing. Uh, thank you?” you blinked, not quite sure how to reply to the quasi-threat, but not entirely certain how it would be taken if you didn’t. You turned your attention to the path leading off to the right and gestured towards it. “We should probably find a way down, first off. I haven’t had much time to look, but I’m fairly certain that this leads where we need it to.”

            The human man shrugged as Cassandra led your group down the indicated path, “Good to have you with us, I think. My name’s Alan. Alan Trevelyan.” He gave you a slight inclination of his head in lieu of a proper greeting as you walked, and you returned it in kind.

            “Lys, like I said. No last name, so don’t bother asking,” you lied crisply, but your tone not unfriendly. “And you, serahs?” The elf you had turned to face blinked at you a moment, probably at the term of address you had used. Varric didn’t seem to have much of a different reaction, and Cassandra just kept walking briskly forward. You tended to use it a lot, you realized absently, but chocked it up to the generally Free Marcher word being similar to the Dunmeri term “sera”, and therefore easier to turn to.

            Finally, Solas nodded to you as he shifted the staff in his hands, “My name is Solas.” You raised an eyebrow. _Pride_? Who in their right minds either named their kid or named themselves after a type of emotion usually deemed _demonic_ …?

            _Elves_ , you thought sarcastically.

            “Varric Tethras, at your service, milady,” the dwarf bowed comically with a suave wink that really only served to make you give an unladylike snort that quickly turned to a frown. Tethras. Varric Tethras…why was that name so damn familiar? “The grumpy Seeker is – ”

            “I can introduce myself, _dwarf_. And I am _not_ ‘ _grumpy_ ’,” Cassandra said with a huff, spitting Varric’s race as if it was poison while you watched on in amusement. “I am Cassandra Pentaghast.” Opening your mouth to respond, you never got the chance.

            “ _Now is the hour of our victory…bring forth the sacrifice_.” Your intended sentence morphed into an audible groan of exasperation.

            Turning your face skyward, you muttered, “Oh, Gods, _not that maniac again_ …”

            Cassandra snapped, “What are we hearing?” She was glowering at you in a way that made you decidedly uncomfortable. It didn’t help matters any that the Breach took that particular moment to let out a pulse of energy and you had to fight a stumble.

            “No, don’t look at me!” Your hands shot into the universal “peace” gesture. “It’s been repeating in a loop since I got here. This is the fourth time I’ve got to listen to that creep drone on about his _sacrifice_. Oblivion if I know what or who it is.”

            “At a guess,” Solas mused after a moment of consideration, “probably the person who created the Breach.”

            You nodded, “I’d believe it. With a voice like that, he just screams _evil bad guy – please watch helplessly while I split a giant hole in the sky_.”

            “You forgot to…add…oh, that’s not good…,” Varric trailed off from behind you. The little party suddenly halted, and you couldn’t help the feeling of nausea that washed over you suddenly. In a manner you hoped was subtle, you pressed your hand to the rock rising up to your right and confirmed your suspicions. You all had stopped directly in front of a particularly large deposit of red lyrium.

            “You…know this stuff is red lyrium, Seeker?” the dwarf asked warily, casting a side glance up to Cassandra, whose jaw clenched unnervingly.

            “I see it, Varric.”

            “But what’s it _doing here_?”

            That was what _you_ wanted to know.

            Solas shrugged, “Magic _could_ have drawn on lyrium beneath the temple…corrupted it.”

            “Yeah, that _could have_ is all well and good…at least, until the uncertainty gets us all killed,” you muttered under your breath. No one seemed to hear you, and you didn’t bother reiterating yourself.

            “It’s evil,” scoffed Varric. “Whatever you do, _don’t touch it_.”

            The group began moving again, but this time at a slower pace, trying to avoid the smattering of red shards that had started to litter the ground. Bile rose in the back of your throat for the second time that day, and you forced it down once more. If you were to cease moving again, your knees probably would have been trembling. A feeling of weakness crashed over you in a wave, like all your energy had been sapped by the Aedric magic seeping out of the Breach’s cracks and further drained by the lyrium’s taint.

            When Justinia’s voice finally screeched her futile plea for help, Cassandra’s shocked exclamation went in one pointed ear and out the other. Much as you were weakened by the energies swirling around you, something just seemed… _wrong_. You fingered your daggers absently as the five of you leaped off of a small ledge, finally drawing closer to the damnable hole in the sky. As you all cautiously walked forward around the base of what had once been an impressive statue, a hissing sound not unlike the sound Rifts made began emitting from Alan. It took you only a moment to realize that it was the mark he’d been found with reacting to its maker. Your eyes went almost comically wide behind the mask.

            “ _Someone, help me!_ ”

            “ _What’s going on here?_ ”

            All heads swiveled so quickly towards the Trevelyan; you swore you heard a few vertebrae pop. Alan’s breathing was irregular, from pain, you reasoned. You didn’t have to be able to see Varric, Cassandra, or Solas’ faces to be able to tell they were bemusedly grim.

            “That was your voice. Most Holy called out to you…but…,” Cassandra started, but the sharp shifting noises that emitted from the Breach dragged everyone’s attention back towards the magical rift. You sucked in a sharp hiss of pain as wave upon wave of Aedric magic crashed over you. Stumbling backwards, your reaction was successfully masked only by the fact that everyone else had taken a step away from the misbehaving Breach.

            “ _What’s going on here?_ ” a reflection of Alan’s voice asked forcefully again.

            “ _Run while you can!_ ” Not-Justina called, desperate. “ _Warn them!_ ”

            The original speaker’s inhuman purr interrupted, “ _We have an intruder. Kill him. Now!_ ” A whirring sound followed, and all magic and noise further ceased. You sighed quietly in relief as it felt like about half of the weight that had been pressing on your chest suddenly vanished.

            “You _were_ there! Who attacked?” bombarded the Seeker before anyone really had a chance to completely recover from the…whatever it was. “And the Divine, is she…? Was this vision true? What are we seeing?” Seeing? So there had been visuals to go along with… _Lovely_ , you groused. Magical visions – yet another thing you were unable to see no matter the circumstance.

            “I don’t remember,” Alan’s voice was firm, but you could year the distinct undertone of distress. Amnesia, then? _Wonderful_ … _things just kept getting better and better_.

            Solas, who had walked several steps ahead of the group, spoke up, “Echoes of what happened here. The Fade bleeds into this place.”

            You rolled your eyes. _No shit_ …

            “This Rift is not sealed, but it is closed…albeit temporarily,” continued the elf, digging the end of his staff into the dirt and leaning on it. “I believe that with the mark, the Rift can be opened, and then sealed properly and safely.”

            Grimacing, you muttered, “That means demons, doesn’t it? I think that means demons.”

            He nodded, “Unfortunately. Opening it will likely attract attention from the other side, but it is the only option I see.” Sighing melodramatically, you made a show of lazily drawing your daggers and slumping in defeat.

            “So much for avoiding more demon blood. Goodbye, freshly-applied mask finish. You were shiny and pretty while you lasted.” Behind you, Varric snorted but drew the cumbersome crossbow with a practiced flourish.

            The next few moments were a blur. You vaguely recalled Cassandra shouting a ready order to Leliana’s men and the redhead herself joining the five of you with her bow, but all of that was quickly deemed unimportant the moment the gargantuan demon materialized when Alan used the mark on the Breach.

            “ _Shit!_ ” you cursed when the thing thumped noisily to the ground. Jumping into a smooth roll, you ducked your way into a shadowed corner that was out-of-the-way and took a moment just to observe. The thing was truly massive, making the twig-like and shadowy demons you had fought earlier look like pebbles in comparison. It was easily three stories tall and all grotesque, purplish leathery skin and spikes and _spines_. It looked like someone had stripped the fur off of a troll, made the troll fifteen feet tall, and given it too many horns.

            Oh, and it also appeared very fond of shooting lightning off in random directions.

            Bemoaning your fate under your breath, you darted out from your cover, sneaked your way behind the thing, and began slashing at what of its hamstrings you could reach. When outsized, disable. The thing’s skin was tough, but you managed to make a few deep cuts that really only looked like they were serving to piss it off more.

            When it tried to raise some kind of defense, it shot you back several feet. You miscalculated the trajectory and managed to land wrong on your left ankle. The feeling of tendon stretching abnormally caused you to wince sharply. There wasn’t anything you could do for the sprain with so many people around. You’d have to tough it out, but _damn_ if it didn’t smart.

            You felt Alan use his weird hand-magic thing to disrupt the Breach, which from Cassandra’s shouts seemed to take down whatever shields the thing had erected, but also drawn several shadowy demons (shades, you realized when one of Leliana’s rogues called it that) through.

            While you were preoccupied keeping one of the buggers from breaking your collarbone (again), you didn’t realize the second sneaking up on you until it was suddenly frozen in a case of ice. Shocked, you quickly slit the throat of the other shade before whirling around and making quick work shattering the demonicicle… “ _Demonicicle_ ” – you snorted. It was catchy.

            “Are you harmed?” Solas shouted above the general din of battle as he quickly flicked his staff this way and that to hurl general spells at the demons.

            You shook your head, mind flashing to your ankle. The lie came so easily, you supposed you should have been abhorred with yourself. “No. Thanks, I owe you one!”

            As it turned out for the rest of the battle’s duration, both Solas and Varric would save your hide more than enough times for you to practically owe the dwarf and elf life-debts. The combination of the Breach unevenly pulsing and proximity of the lyrium had knocked you thoroughly off your game. Spraining your ankle by landing wrong on it had been your first clue. Letting the shade sneak up on you had been the second. You were practically _mistress of shadow_. No one sneaked up on you. Not even demons that practically _were_ shadows.

            Still, you fought as admirably as you could with the rest, and watched with bated breath once the beast of a demon had finally been felled as Alan raised his left hand to the Breach. Magic tingled through the air before the thing finally exploded outward with a rush of energy. You stumbled, noting that you had been doing a lot of that as of late, before righting yourself quickly as people began rushing around you.

“ _Trevelyan!_ ” Cassandra cried suddenly. The demon had dissolved, and no more had deigned to take its place, but Alan had collapsed. He was convulsing, you noticed, and you wasted no time rushing over to where Solas, having caught the unresponsive man, was bent over him.

            Crashing to your knees opposite the elf, you attempted to help hold Alan steady, “I’ll keep him from hurting himself, you figure out what in Oblivion is wrong.” Shooting you a nod of gratitude, you tried not to flinch outwardly as he cast ripple after ripple of healing magic over the seizing warrior. Instead of feeling soothing to you, the wreath of energy scalded your skin.

            “It’s the mark,” the elf mumbled after a second. “There was too much strain.” He didn’t seem to have meant to say the words aloud, as he was startled when Leliana spoke sharply.

            “Will he live?”

            Solas pursed his lips, “Perhaps. If we can get him back to the village quick enough, I might be able to stabilize it. But he took some hits from the demon. His physical condition needs to be mitigated first, and I am no healer.”

            Cassandra motioned towards several soldiers, “We’ve no time to lose, then. Help carry him. And you,” she turned her attention sharply towards you, eyes blazing, “will be coming with us. I still have questions for you.” You nodded numbly, realizing that there wasn’t really much choice in the matter.

            _Let the games begin_ , you though wryly as you began helping the soldiers carry the unconscious warrior.

***

 **Several hours later found you sitting in a rather uncomfortable chair.** Leliana was seated across a rickety wooden table from you, lips pursed in a manner you could only describe as disgruntled.

            “You’re name is Lys, correct?” You nodded.

            “And you’re refusing to give us a last name?”

            Shrugging, you replied simply, “I don’t have one. It’s just Lys. Always has been.” Only a half-lie, you reasoned.

            Leliana continued without missing a beat, “You’re an elf, you said. Where are you from? You’re accent says Free Marches.”

            “Around,” you sighed evasively. “I’m an orphan, to be short. I was raised by an historian who traveled a lot. He died around ten years ago, and I was taken in for a short time by a Dalish clan. I left after a while and have been making my own way ever since. That’s the third time you’ve asked me that, ma’am. How do you expect it to change in five minutes?” Another half-lie; you were becoming frighteningly good at those in the past day.

            “Just making sure. You’re a mercenary, or something of the like?”

            You got the urge to laugh, “’ _Or something_ ’. I do odd jobs. Sometimes mercenary work, sometimes laboring – it just depends on where I am and what’s being asked.” And there was the outright lie – you figured it was only a matter of time. You had been right.

            The spymaster regarded you before huffing out a soul weary sigh, “We’ll be looking into this, but I don’t see any reason why you cannot stay. Despite struggling during the fight at the Temple of Sacred Ashes, you have been understanding and _mostly_ complied with our demands.” You winced at the inflection of “ _mostly_ ”, knowing it was an indirect reference to your evasion of directly answering questions.

            “You’ll be assigned quarters close to the Chantry,” Leliana continued before you could get a chance to explain your shoddy fighting at the Temple, “and you’ll be watched for any external correspondence. If you’ve proven yourself trustworthy after a few weeks, we’ll speak with Commander Cullen about perhaps allowing you to train some with those…interesting daggers of yours.” No external correspondence? Dand was going to _flip_ …

            Nodding anyway, you kept your tone somber, “Ma’am, if I may, I do not require training.” She didn’t spare you a look as she shuffled through a few papers that had been set before her.

            “Your performance at the Temple suggests otherwise. Solas and Varric claim they had to do more than their fair share of keeping you alive, and Cassandra and several archers claimed to have seen you favoring your left leg on the walk back to Haven.”

            Breathing in deeply, you let the air slowly hiss out of your nose in an attempt to quell your temper that was threatening to flare with a vengeance, “I had just traveled without pause to Haven from the area near Kirkwall, and fought my way up a mountain crawling with demons, only to have to fight one bigger than a house. I believe I am well within my rights to claim I was merely exhausted and that exhaustion was impairing my ability to fight.”

            “Perhaps,” she acknowledged. “However, Cassandra and I have agreed to take caution with you. If that involves not allowing you to fight right away, then that is what we are going to do.”

            You hesitated for a moment, “I do have one question. Why inform me of this, of the fact that you intend to keep an eye on me? It is…counterproductive, no?”

            The look the other woman gave you was a mixture of suspicious and amused, “I have a feeling you would have found out on your own eventually.”

            “And you didn’t want to risk upsetting a potential ally?” It was more a statement than a question.

            Leliana nodded, “In a manner of speaking.” Short and vague; she didn’t elaborate further.

            “You’re free to leave. The guard out front will show you to your quarters.” Without further explanation, the redhead ushered you quickly out of the war room set up at the back of Haven’s chantry. The sound of the heavy door slamming shut with purpose behind you was mildly amusing, whereas the stoic guard assigned to show you to your new lodgings was anything but. He was decked out in Templar armor, probably a refugee from the mage-templar conflict, and you had little doubt that he either saw himself above menial guard duty or wasn’t too keen on showing some potentially dangerous masked stranger to where she would be staying within his camp. From the noncommittal grunts and sideways glares you received from under his helmet, you had a hankering suspicion it was the latter.

            “Not your idea of a fun Sunday afternoon, I take it?” you asked sarcastically.

            “Hn.”

            You crossed your arms and turned your face forward as the front doors to the Chantry were heaved open, and a blast of cold air from outside smacked you soundly, “Are all you Templars trained to be so sickeningly _uptight_? I’d have a better conversation talking to a stone wall…”

            “Hn.”

            Scoffing, you decided not to respond as you were led past the tavern and up a few stone steps wedged into the snowy ground. The stench of herbs hit you full force, and it didn’t take you but a few more sniffs to recognize elfroot and dawn lotus tingeing the air. You were being placed near a healer. Lovely.

            A heavy hand on your still tender shoulder practically dragged you over to one of the small cabins off to the left and unceremoniously pushed you inside, “Hey! Watch the arm! Not all of us are encased in infallible steel, you damned brute!”

            Your escort simple stared you down for a moment as he stood in the doorway to the cabin, “Your glibness will only do you harm, woman. You are to remain here at all times until you are told otherwise. Do not go against those demands.”

            Rolling your eyes, you scoffed, “Yeah, yeah, yeah, _safety risk_. I get it. And what do you mean ‘ _will only do me harm_ ’? Is that a threat? Actually, don’t answer that. It probably was. Now, do you mind? It’s kind of drafty in here with the door open.” Without giving you even a courteous farewell, the Templar turned crisply on his heel and marched away. You leaned out the doorway to pull the wooden slab shut, noting that Solas was leaving the hut across from yours. Putting you close to the apostate was…not very sound, unless they trusted the man. Which, you realized with distaste as you watched him close the door to his cabin and eye you strangely, they obviously did more than they trusted you.

            “Hey, tin-man! Tell Leliana that if she’s going through all this trouble to confine me to a cabin, she might as well have just kept me in the damned holding cells! Morons...,” you shouted at the retreating soldier’s back, but if he heard you, he didn’t acknowledge it as he turned the corner out of sight.

            “They probably figured this was more comfortable than a cell. You did help with the Breach – I’d imagine this is their way of showing gratitude.” Solas said, the suddenness of his statement causing you to jump.

            You regarded him a moment, noting that he didn’t have his staff with him. Whether of his own volition or at the behest of Leliana and Cassandra, you couldn’t tell. “Maybe, but forcing me to be confined to my quarters is an admittedly shitty way to go about showing it.” Heaving a sigh, you slumped exhaustedly against the doorframe so your sprained ankle would cease crying for your weight to be taken off of it.

            “I suppose it doesn’t matter. Not much I can do at any rate to get them to trust me other than comply. I’m going to go out on a limb and say that’s how you did it?”

            The elf nodded as he stepped a bit closer so the two of you weren’t shouting across the small…plaza, for lack of a better term, “I am an apostate, as you probably guessed. ‘ _Trust_ ’, I fear, is too strong a term. ‘ _Tolerate_ ’ is perhaps more apt.”

            “Yeah,” you snorted, waving a hand haphazardly at the cabin behind you. “Unfortunately, I think I’m a few steps behind _tolerated_.” You realized as he was standing closer that he was taller than most elves you’d encountered, about as tall as yourself. Not that that was much of a feat, you thought sourly. You’d always been short for an Altmer.

            “Just give them time,” he advised, a chuckle in his voice that should have probably seemed condescending. “Cassandra and Leliana are understandably slow to trust.”

            “Leliana is. I think Cassandra’s just impressively paranoid,” you rolled your eyes. “Oh, while you’re here, I wanted to thank you for saving my ass back at the Temple. I wasn’t…at at my best, I’m ashamed to admit,” you rubbed the back of your neck awkwardly. “ _Ma melava halani,_ Solas _. Ma serannas._ ”

            He seemed amusingly shell-shocked, “It is no problem, _da’len_. You speak elven?”

            “Well, I _am_ an elf. It only makes sense I suppose,” you laughed. “Around ten years ago, I was injured badly and taken in by a Dalish clan for a time. The Keeper taught me a lot while I was recovering.”

            “You are fortunate that they were nearby, then,” he conceded, but there was something in his tone that told you the respect was grudging, forced. Your eyebrows shot up into your hairline at that. So, maybe not Dalish, then?

            “Quite,” you agreed distractedly. “Anyway, I take it that since no one is running around in a panic that you managed to get that mark on Alan’s hand stable?”

            Solas nodded, “Yes. I do not know when he will wake up, but the mark doesn’t seem to be growing anymore, and the Breach is…tentatively stable.” You barked a short, mirthless laugh.

            “’ _Tentatively stable_ ’ – that doesn’t sound all that great.”

            “There aren’t demons emerging from it any longer,” he drawled with the barest hint of sarcasm.

            Throwing your head back, you didn’t stop the guffaws that tore from your throat, “Well that is a plus, isn’t it? At least whatever was done to it seems to have bought time.”

            He sighed, “Indeed. I dislike cutting our conversation short; however I’m afraid I am going to be late for a meeting with Cassandra.” A meeting, huh? Your right hand twitched the slightest bit.

            “Oh, it’s no problem. I’m sorry to have kept you,” you dipped your head in a gesture of respect you weren’t quite sure yet whether you felt or not. “ _Dareth shiral_.”

            As Solas returned the farewell and walked away, you began plotting as soon as your door had shut. That meeting probably had something to do with Alan and the Breach, and you had every intention of spying on it.

            After all, whatever guards the Chantry could pull were no match for your invisibility spells.

***

 ** _Too easy_** **.** That was your first thought as you settled your invisible self smugly against the left hand wall of the makeshift war room. Around the table bustled two human women, a human man, a male elf, and a male dwarf who shuffled quickly to attention the minute Cassandra strode purposefully through the large doors.

            “Solas,” she grit through her teeth, voice strained from some unknown factor, “what is the Herald’s condition?”

            The elf stood a little straighter, arms clasped politely behind his back in stark contrast to the undignified slump of the dwarf next to him, “The mark is stable for now, as far as I am able to tell. I was informed by Adan that his physical wounds should heal without issue.”

            “And the Breach?”

            He shook his head slowly, “I am not certain. I would have to observe it up close to be sure, but it appears to be…sealed, calm.”

            A woman decked in almost gaudy finery and holding a clipboard spoke up in a decidedly Antivan accent, “Sealed? It is not closed?” The elf didn’t verbally respond, instead settling for shaking his head gravely.

            Leliana sighed, resting her hands on the table where a map was spread, “Do we have any idea what could have caused the explosion yet?” The human man, another warrior, draped his hands on the pommel of the sword belted to his waist. His very presence was charismatic, but that wasn’t the reason you had taken note of him the moment you stepped into the room. No, the blond man was a Templar. You could practically smell the power rolling off of him. It wasn’t oppressive to you as it would have been to a Thedosian mage, but it was still something easily noted and it made you only the slightest bit uncomfortable. If there was anyone aside from Solas who would be able to sense your magic (and, by extent, you) should he get a desire to look for it, it would be him.

            “Not yet, no. It wasn’t magic that anyone could tell, that much is certain,” he frowned, the scar across his lips becoming even starker with the motion. “As for what it was exactly, we’ve no clue. No remnants of any kind of device have been found in the vicinity as of yet.”

            “And Solas said he cannot imagine a mage being behind it,” mused the Seeker as a hand found its way under her chin in thought. “I suppose all we can do for that is to keep looking. Much as it pains me, I must also agree with a comment Varric made earlier. The presence of the lyrium is…troubling.”

            Varric blinked and then made an over-exaggerated show of wiggling a stubby finger in his ear, “Do…do my ears deceive me, or did Cassandra just… _agree_ with me?” His voice was too aghast for the emotion to be genuine, and the woman predictably turned sharp brown eyes at the rogue. _Those two got on about as well as an Imperial and a Stormcloak_ , you thought, amused.

            “Do not get used to it, _dwarf_ ,” she spat venomously. You really didn’t understand why Cassandra bothered – even you knew by then that Varric was going to milk the comment for all it was worth and do it with the biggest shit-eating grin known to man plastered firmly on his face.

            Thankfully, though, he didn’t really get the chance to comment before Leliana spoke up again, “I think our first step in regards to the red lyrium would be figuring out exactly what it is. We’d do ourselves no favors by running into this blind.”

            “I have already sent inquiries to Orzammar,” the Antivan sighed dramatically as she elegantly shifted on her feet, quill poised purposefully. “It will be several more days before I may hear anything back, and that is being optimistic. The only other place I can fathom asking about it would be a Circle, and that…probably would not be wise.” The Circles were in chaos. Even you wouldn’t touch contacting one or the rebel mages scattered about with a ten foot pole. It was part of the reason you hadn’t spoken to Dagna and Daylen in almost a year. You weren’t willing to risk contacting them.

            The Templar spoke impatiently, “There must be something we can do about it, someone we can contact. I don’t like that stuff being so close to Haven and knowing so little about it.”

            “The Shadow Broker is always an option,” Varric offered sarcastically. You had to purse your lips to keep from snorting at the irony.

            “The Shadow Broker is a criminal,” Cassandra stated finally, crossing her arms. “And even so, it is impossible to get in contact with him.”

            Leliana straightened with a nod, “Not to mention dangerous. I had agents attempt to find him before. I have reason to believe two got close, but I was never able to find him.”

            Solas eyebrows shot up, “What makes you think you got close?”

            “They were killed,” stated the redhead bluntly, “only a short ways away from a campsite by some rather skilled knife work. None of the traps they had placed around their location had been triggered, either.” Ah, you remembered those morons. _Mages from Dairsmuid_ your ass – how stupid had they thought you were?

            “Are you sure it was the Broker?” asked the Antivan. “They could have easily been mistakenly following a Crow. That…never ends well.”

            Leliana shook her head decisively, “Oh, I’m positive. I saw the bodies myself. _This_ was lying next to them.” Out from a pocket hidden away in her light chainmail, the spymaster pulled a dried purple flower. Though long dead and shriveled, the form of an amaryllis was clearly distinct. Your eyes widened at the sight. She’d found and kept your calling card, then? That was…not scary at all…

            Varric chortled, “Yep. That’s him. Or at least someone who wants you to think he’s the Broker. I take it he didn’t like you tailing him, Lady Nightingale.” That was an understatement. You had been less than amused.

            “I didn’t chance sending anyone else after that. I was not keen on losing more agents.”

            “It does not matter,” Cassandra sighed as she pinched the bridge of her nose. “There is obviously no way to get in contact with him, or even any proof that the Broker is only one person. It could be a group. This is pointless.”

            Varric seemed to hesitate for a moment, “Well…not necessarily.”

            “Why does you having an idea _not_ surprise me?” Solas asked rhetorically. No one answered, much to your own amusement.

            All eyes turned to the dwarf, and he shrugged in a manner that was almost too nonchalant, “He’s got dead drops all over the Free Marches. Have someone stick a note there, get his… _their_ attention.”

            “That isn’t guaranteed to work,” the male warrior scoffed. “Our attempts could very well be ignored.”

            Varric threw his arms out exasperatedly, “You got a better idea, Curly?” You had only a split second of indecision before you decided to take the golden opportunity given to you. Making sure no one was looking and that the corner you had shuffled into was sufficiently shadowed, you let your invisibility spell gradually drop.

            “Trying to find the Broker, are you? That’s ambitious. You don’t even know if you’ll be given the info you’re asking for.”

            Everyone whirled on you so quickly, you almost thought they’d have whiplash. Seeing their confusion, you detached your hand from the wall behind you and took a step into the flickering candlelight. The silence that followed made you wish beyond reason that you could have seen the looks on their faces.

            “Why are you here?” Cassandra snapped suddenly. “How did you even get in here? This room is guarded!”

            You scoffed, placing your weight on your left hip and crossing your arms, “I was curious. And as for how I got in here, I came in through the door. I said it once, I’ll say it again – you need better guards.”

            “I trained those men myself,” the blond warrior huffed, insult laced in his voice in a manner that made you grin.

            “Yes,” you drawled, voice falsely cheery, “and what a resoundingly superb job you’ve done!” You could feel the glare. It was more than worth it.

            Leliana spoke up, “I told you to remain in your quarters until we could sort out whether or not you are a threat, Lys.”

            You bobbed your head in acknowledgement, “Yes, you did. I decided not to listen. You should be glad I didn’t. I know where you can find the Broker.”

            The reaction was instantaneous. A conglomeration of voices began garbling together in shocked monologue and questions. You heard Cassandra’s seemingly ordinary tone of firm indignation demanding what you knew mirrored only by the blond man’s ineloquent inquiry of, “What?” The Antivan’s stuttering flounder of half-questions was masked by Varric’s snort of amusement and Solas’ quiet pondering. Leliana was predictably silent as well, no doubt appraising you swiftly.

            Deciding the noise was not helping matters, you inhaled and let out a screeching whistle that effectively caused the chattering jaws to shut with a _snap!_ “Mara’s mercy, people, one at a time, please?”

            Varric was the first to break the terse silence that followed, “You know where to find probably the most elusive figure of Thedas’ criminal underground? Just off the top of your head?”

            You nodded brightly, “Yep. Sure do.”

            “This doesn’t change anything,” the Antivan woman waved her hand haphazardly. “We still cannot be sure this Shadow Broker will help us. Approaching him could be a waste of time and resources we cannot spare. Especially since the last time people were sent to find them…” She trailed off warily.

            “Oh, you won’t have to go very far. The Broker’s nearby, actually. And I can guarantee you’ll get the help you’re looking for instead of, say, a dagger in the back.”

            Leliana’s voice was cautious, “You’re oddly certain…” Sending her an odd look that she couldn’t see behind your mask, you gestured to the people gathered in the room.

            “Well, for one, killing you would be entirely counterproductive. That hole in the sky? The demons? Bad for living. What’s bad for living is usually bad for business, if you catch my meaning. You’re working to fix that issue.”

            The Templar shook his head, “So he’ll or they’ll help us because we’re doing the morally right thing that just so happens to make it easier for him or them to _illegally_ sell information?” Frowning, you realized distastefully that you were surrounded by a bunch of goody-two-shoes law-abiders. At least, you thought as you casted a glance towards Solas and Varric, you were _mostly_ surrounded by a bunch of goody-two-shoes law-abiders.

            “That’s about the gist of it, yeah. You’re asking a criminal for help – don’t expect any more than what you’re getting.”

            “Enough of this,” Cassandra said. “We are not going to know until we ask him for ourselves. Where is the Broker, Lys?”

            A khajiit-that-ate-the-canary grin broke across your face as you spread your arms wide with a little more showmanship than was necessary, “You’re looking at her.”

            “You?” Leliana asked doubtfully. “You’re the Shadow Broker…?” The slight intake of breath you heard from her meant that she had let her eyes wander down to your dagger and actually take the time to look them over. It didn’t take a genius to figure out that she had tentatively matched their unique shape to the stab wounds on her dead scouts.

            “The one and only…at least, I hope,” you frowned mockingly. “If there’s another Shadow Broker out there, then the past nine or so years of my life have been a lie…or maybe just a dream brought on by some bad cake…never can tell…”

            Varric stepped forward, “Alright, Prowler. I’ve bought information from the Broker before. If you’re really her, then prove it.” It suddenly hit you like a brick wall where you had heard his name before. A bitter chuckle left your throat and interrupted the riot act Cassandra was reading the dwarf for buying information from a criminal.

            “Varric Tethras. Now I know why you’re name is so familiar,” you said darkly. “You bid at one of Cumberland’s dead drops – used the pseudonym Aerin Sathet. Of course, you yourself didn’t make the bid since you were in Kirkwall, but had people in your little spy ring do it for you. I was admittedly a bit shocked to find that a little kid had been the one to actually place it. Had to work extra that week to track the bid to you, specifically. I had information on a rogue Carta ring holing up in an abandoned Grey Warden fortress in the Western Approach for sale. You bid the most for that, way above the others – sixty sovereigns to the mean twenty. You used to traipse about with Garrett Hawke’s little band, didn’t you?”

            “Yeah, don’t remind me,” he muttered before heaving a sigh. “You’re definitely the Broker. Well, either that, or eerily well-informed, in which case, remind me never to inspire you to find blackmail on me.”

            Cassandra growled, “So you are…why help us? What do you want in return?”

            “In short?” you asked, your voice hard. “I want that damn hole in the sky fixed, permanently. I may be selfish, a tad greedy, and arguably without morals, but I do have _some_ standards, and that thing is bad no matter who you are. So I want that closed, and the sick bastard responsible for opening it in the first place dead. The world’s here for a reason – ending it won’t do anyone any favors, and I’d love to help knock the moron who thought it would down a few pegs.”

            “I believe,” Solas started, and you could feel his eyes boring into your skull, “that is a standard we can all respect.”

            Leliana asked, “So you’re offering information?”

            “When I can, yes. I do most of my own recon, so it will admittedly be a little slower if you plan on keeping me in Haven. I’m going to have to send the handful of contacts I have to specifically look for information pertaining to the Breach, but I can probably feed you other relevant information as you need it, free of charge. All I ask is that I get to be there when you bring the son of a bitch that did this down and you keep my identity on a need-to-know basis.”

            Cassandra and the redhead spymaster shared a look before the warrior stepped forward and shook your hand firmly. You were granted a more enhanced view of her, noting the dark Nevarran skin and the two scars that gouged opposite sides of her face. “In that case…welcome to the Inquisition.” You blinked slowly. You hadn’t been aware that they were starting an Inquisition, though given current events, you supposed it made sense.

            Regardless, you grinned, “Glad to be welcomed, Cassandra.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here're the Elvish translations. They're common phrases, but just in case.
> 
> Ma melava halani, Solas. - "You helped me, Solas."
> 
> Ma serannas - Thank you
> 
> lethallan - a casual reference to someone with whom one is acquainted. I take it to mean something along the lines of "friend", however the wiki postulates it means something more akin to "cousin" or "clansman".
> 
> Dareth shiral - "safe journey", a common farewell.


	10. Chapter 9

Chapter 9

* * *

“ _Between you and me,_  
it’s hard to ever really know who to trust  
out of pain, wondering.” 

-One Less Reason, “ _Bloodflowers_ ”

* * *

 

**_~Thedas – 9:41 Dragon~_ **

* * *

**Hearing the commotion outside of your cabin was** inevitable, but you hadn’t thought much of it as you had been immersed wholly in running your fingers across the pages of the book in your lap. It was a leather-bound copy of “The Pursuit of Knowledge” by Brother Genetivi you had swiped from the Chantry three days before. In fact, it had been on your way out of the meeting between Cassandra, Leliana, Solas, Varric, and the two other people you had come to understand were the leader of the Inquisition’s soldiers, Commander Cullen (the former Knight-Commander of Kirkwall after the whole fiasco with his power-crazy predecessor, you had recognized afterwards), and the Orlesian-descended-Antivan-born woman serving as diplomat, Josephine Montilyet. They were… _colorful_ people, you had decided, and would no doubt prove to be interesting to work with.

                The feeling of rough vellum beneath your fingertips was calming. Reading had always been a favorite pastime of yours. Collateral from being raised by priests, you supposed, but you were thankful your ability to do so hadn’t been entirely stripped from you, nonetheless. The privacy of your cabin had actually allowed you a moment of bravery, and you had removed your gloves so as to make the task easier. The holes you had cut on the pads of the leather fingers were miniscule out of necessity, a precaution to limit the amount of golden skin that was able to show. That wasn’t to say they didn’t get the job done, just that the difference was akin to (and you laughed at the irony) wearing a mask. You could see wearing them. You just couldn’t see _as well_.

                You frowned down at the aforementioned limbs as they paused in the middle of a page. Flipping your right hand palm-up, you compared the lighter, more ordinary tone of your fingertips to the richer shade that covered the top of your other appendage. You knew that if anyone got a close glimpse at your fingers through the gloves, the odd pigmentation would be noticeable. Frowning in concentration, you poured magika into your hands. It was useless – you already knew what the reaction would be.

                _Predictable_ , just like the last fifty-two times you had attempted it. The magic didn’t turn your skin color like it did with your amaryllis plants, your hands remaining several shades across a golden gradient as if to mock you. You rolled your eyes, cursing the Godhead for what you were sure was just a very awful joke with every bad thing that had ever happened to you being the morbid punch line.

                It really wasn’t likely that many people would get the chance to be able to see your skin, though, so you supposed you really didn’t have much to worry about. Well, so you had thought before you had gotten the hare-brained idea to join the bloody Inquisition. No one had ever said you had _good_ spontaneous ideas…

                Scoffing, you turned back to the book, suddenly glaringly disinterested in the material. You managed to skim three and a half more pages before slamming the tome shut with a grimace. Tossing it to your left, you watched it bounce on the (very uncomfortable) quilt-covered mattress with a noncommittal grunt before flopping back on the cot, one of many that lined the back wall of your hut, yourself. Since you couldn’t see it, you stared pensively up at where the ceiling should have been. You still hadn’t quite figured out what part of you had thought staying was a good idea. An itch in the back of your mind also reminded you of the stupidity that had possessed you to tell the assembled group that you were the bloody _Shadow Broker_. It had been spur-of-the-moment, and gods only knew _those_ never ended well.

                “As if Dand and Kinloch didn’t set me straight on _that_ ,” you grumbled to yourself. A hand twitched, desperately wanting to pinch the bridge of your nose to ward off the oncoming headache. _No_ , you reminded, _gloves were risky enough. The mask stays on._

                Like Fate was trying to prove your point, a loud series of smacks vibrated through the air from your cabin’s front door, “Hey, Prowler! Cassandra wants to see you.”

                Snatching up your gloves, you pulled them on fluidly out of adrenaline-fueled habit as your face contorted into a scowl. Varric was about the _last_ person you wanted to deal with. You lazily rolled to your feet, thankful that you had opted not to remove your boots, and silently walked around the partition to the door. Varric looked a bit shocked as said door was wrenched open, his hand left raised as if to knock again. He predictably ignored the potential for awkwardness and slapped on a mischievous grin.

                “Don’t,” you growled, “call me ‘ _Prowler_ ’.” For emphasis, you slammed the door behind you so hard it jarred snow and several icicles from the roof. The dwarf, however, appeared entirely nonplussed and kept giving you that stupid _grin_. You pulled your hand away from the cabin as if you had been burned just to make the blurry image go away.

                He shrugged, “Would you prefer I call you Shadow Broker?” He began leading you towards the Chantry, and you followed grudgingly. It had been decided that you were not to roam Haven without an escort, and it appeared Varric had been the one sent on “Broker Watch”. You cursed your luck.

                “I’d prefer you call me by my name, not my title.”

                “ _Amaryllis_ is a bit of a mouthful, y’know,” he snickered, shuffling to the side to avoid a gaggle of children who had barreled their way past the two of you.

                Sighing, you decided not to correct him on the fact that _Amaryllis_ was just another title. It was still infinitely better than Shadow Broker or Prowler. “Then use the shortened version. I do believe I introduced myself with it, didn’t I?” Let them _believe_ it was a shortening of _Amaryllis_. It was better for everyone that way.

                He grinned up at you again – you didn’t have to see it, you could feel it, “Lys? Nah. You haven’t seen yourself fight. You _prowl_. Prowler fits you.”

                “So does my _name_ ,” you muttered, not lacking in scorn. Suddenly, Varric stopped walking. You did, too, and turned to face him more with irritation than confusion.

                “Look, I apologize for whatever I did to piss you off,” said the dwarf after a tense moment. You were taken aback, but composed yourself quickly.

                “You didn’t do anything, Tethras.”

                “Then why are you giving me the third degree?”

                You huffed a breath through your nose, “I just said that I don’t like the nickname, and I’m giving you the third degree?”

                He nodded, “This is more than a nickname, Prowler. You’re acting like I just told the whole of Thedas who you are.”

                “Quiet, dwarf!” you hissed, taking a step towards him so that you were a hair’s breath away from the rogue. “Do you want someone to hear you?” Incredulously, he lifted his arms. The gesture was confused and lacking emphasis.

                “Andraste’s ass, I didn’t say anything!”

                You hoped the glower you were sending him could be felt through the mask, “Maybe so, but the _last_ thing I need is people overhearing something benign and being _curious_ about it.”

                “I think you got enough people _curious_ as it is,” you imagined him raising an eyebrow as you heard the shuffling signifying he was jerking a thumb over his shoulder at something back the way you had come. “I doubt a little more will hurt anything.”

                Whirling on your heel and continuing your _stalk_ (definitely _not_ a prowl) towards the Chantry, you waved a hand over your head sardonically, “Questions can hurt a lot more than you know. Still, I’m not going to argue with you, Tethras. One word and your crossbow gets intimate with my daggers…and not in a good way.” You had learned via an accidentally (you swore) overheard conversation around a day and a half ago that Varric had two overt weaknesses: his overlarge crossbow, and his oddly copious amount of chest hair. The latter, you would admit, was infinitely more disturbing than the former. A ghost of a shudder rippled down your spine.

                A gloved hand was pressed to the aforementioned chest hair in horror that you were eighty percent sure was fake, “That’s low, Prowler, threatening Bianca like that. I suppose I’ll just have to be contented with the fact that you don’t even have your daggers.” You frowned at the reminder. Cassandra and Leliana had decreed it a bad idea for you to go around the village armed and had confiscated your weapons immediately after returning from the fiasco at the Temple of Sacred Ashes. A hand ghosted to your right hip where the sheath of one of your blades should have resided, dismayed to find it as empty as it had been for the last sixty-three hours and forty-five minutes. The hand clenched into a fist before it dropped.

                It wasn’t that not having your daggers made you defenseless – far from it. You had two back up stilettos stored safely away in your knee-high boots and a half dozen throwing knives secreted in several hollowed-out areas of your ever-so-slightly too-thick belt. Haven was by far not the first time you had had to sneak weapons on your person covertly. No, those daggers were sentimental relics of your past. The one you kept on your left side had been the one that had made the transfer to Thedas with you. The one on your right was a slightly crude replica you had managed to create shortly before leaving the Sabrae clan, much to Ilen’s glee. You never had liked being unbalanced.

                The one represented Nirn, your home. The other represented your future. It was slightly sappy, but it was one of the rare times you didn’t much care.

                “I have my ways, dwarf. I have my ways.” No more words were spoken as you slid through the tall oak doors and strode purposefully towards the back chamber that had been dubbed the war room. Your sensitive ears could hear Cassandra’s voice emitting from there.

                Before you could pass the door that led to the dungeons, Varric halted, “This is as far as I go. I was given… _express_ orders to _just_ escort you here.”

                You raised an eyebrow upwards, “Cassandra?” He shook his head.

                “No,” cringing, he made a sound in the back of his throat of discomfort. “Leliana. Try as she might, I don’t really think the Seeker could be quite as terrifying as Lady Nightingale.”

                You chuckled, “One of the rare times I imagine we will be in agreement.” Without waiting for him to reply, you strode the few paces to the war room door and wrenched it open smoothly.

                Before even taking a step over the threshold, you could make out the sounds of five people breathing. The muddled conglomeration of scents that followed was deciphered into five distinctly different presences shortly after. Though all conversation had ceased upon your entrance, it didn’t take a genius to determine that every pair of eyes were focused on you, the newcomer.

                “I see Varric fetched you without incident,” Leliana’s voice intoned dryly from off to your left. The phrase meant nothing, merely a conversational placeholder.

                “Of course he did,” you said just as matter-of-factly, stepping up beside an armored person on your left that could only have been Alan. “You took my weapons. Any other method of ridding the world of his presence weren’t subtle enough to be carried out in broad daylight, in the middle of a village square.” You thought you heard Cassandra snort, but the sound was so low even your ears were hard-pressed to decipher the sound.

                Alan, however, was not so reserved, and his laugh echoed off of the stone walls, “Varric is quite charming, isn’t he?” You inclined your head towards the human.

                “About as _charming_ as a blight-infected pit of giant spiders,” sneering, you crossed your arms and shifted your weight on your hips. “They tell you all my dirty little secrets yet, _sera_?”

                He blinked a few times, mouth floundering for a moment as if he was taken aback by the swift subject change, “Um…I do not believe so, no…”

                “Hm…figures. Very well, then – I’m the Shadow Broker. That fact does _not_ leave this room. To others, I am merely a mercenary offering my services to the Inquisition. Clear? Yes? _Good_.” You stared forward and continued smoothly without giving him a chance to acknowledge. “I believe I’ve introduced myself already, but in case you’ve forgotten, you may call me Lys. This lot doesn’t trust me as far as they can throw me, not that I blame them, which could only mean that the rumors about a sympathetic Chantry priestess in the Hinterlands checked out one of two ways: either flawlessly or not at all. And that, in turn begs my next questions – which is it, and why in Oblivion am I here?”

                A beat of silence followed. “I was just about to say before you arrived that we contacted Mother Giselle, and she has asked to speak with the Herald,” Leliana finally said with what you wondered whether or not was a tone of distaste in her voice

                “I thought the Chantry denounced me. Y’know, heretical _Herald of Andraste_ and all that,” Alan said bemusedly.

                You shrugged, reaching out to pat him on the shoulder in a way that was only slightly sarcastic, “She’s a bit of a…hmm…an _open thinker_ , or so I’ve heard.”

                “How exactly _did_ you hear of this?” asked Cassandra. “Mother Giselle has always been considered one of the most loyal clerics in the Chantry. One would think her to stand by it during these times, not back those considered blasphemers and heretics.”

                Removing your hand from Alan’s shoulder, you uncrossed your arms and clasped them instead behind your back, “Tongues have a habit of wagging when they think no ears are listening, Seeker.”

                She eyed you warily, arms crossed in a clearly defensive move, “Obviously you’re rather _skilled_ at that.”

                “Arguably one of the best, I’d say,” you grinned wolfishly. “I’m afraid I digress, however. You wouldn’t bring me all the way here just to tell me what I already knew. You’ve all more purpose than that.”

                Leliana hummed in the back of her throat, “It has been decided that you will accompany Cassandra and the Herald to the Hinterlands, as a sort of probation. If you really wish to help, we’d have you prove it first.” You thought it over a moment, but it wasn’t as if you couldn’t see their point. The Temple of Sacred Ashes hadn’t showcased you at the top of your game, and considering they knew who you were… Well, trust was a scarce commodity in your line of work.

                You nodded finally, “Okay. That sounds fair.”

                The Commander turned his gaze towards Alan as his hands rested almost nonchalantly (read: _unnervingly_ ) on the pommel of his sword, “Look for opportunities to expand the Inquisition’s influence while you’re there. Maker knows we need it…” You quirked a brow at the sour tone in comparison to the nearly chipper one Alan responded with, but didn’t comment.

                Instead, you shrugged, “Do I get my daggers back, at least?” To your shock, it was Cassandra who broke away from her spot near the table burdened with maps and gestured for you to follow her.

                “This way,” she muttered. “We’ll gather your weapons and then Solas and Varric. We depart directly after.” Pinching your brow together, you gave a sarcastic wave to the other occupants of the war room as you followed the Nevarran out into the main vestibule of the Chantry. Somehow, you had a feeling that things in the Hinterlands were going to be worse than anyone anticipated.

*******

**You hated being right**.

                It was a five-day journey from Haven to the area near Redcliffe that was your destination. Well, correction, it _should have been_ a five-day journey, but numerous Fade Rifts, pockets of rebel Mages and Templars, and the occasional bandit raid had stretched the meager traipse to being almost a week in length. It had been only by sheer luck that Solas and Cassandra had possessed the foresight to ensure your group had extra provisions in case of a hold up, or you were sure that someone would have had to try their hand at hunting for your supper.

                The thought admittedly made you cringe. Solas was a skilled mage, yes, but magic and traps wouldn’t cut it if one was attempting to catch enough game to feed the five of you. Varric was quick with his crossbow and rather silent, but he had mentioned more than once that he abhorred hunting and was apparently (and rather oddly considering his profession as a rogue) horrible at it. Cassandra and Alan were good with blades, but their armors were louder than a herd of mammoths stomping around – they would have scared off anything worth eating. Your own blindness made a bow firmly scratched off the list of weaponry you could use, daggers were tricky what with requiring such a close proximity to the target, and snares would only catch prey so large.

                All in all, had the mage and female warrior not thought ahead about the chance of a hold up occurring, your group would have been, to put it bluntly, _screwed_. It was embarrassing to admit.

                As for your companions themselves, the lengthened journey gave you time to observe them in earnest without seeming suspicious. It wasn’t until after the second Fade Rift that Cassandra had decided, thanks in part to some persuasion courtesy of Alan, to allow you to scout the path ahead for any dangers as you had initially been assigned to do. You could tell clearly by the look in the woman’s dark eyes that she didn’t trust you whatsoever, but you had earned at least a modicum of respect with how you had held yourself during the fights with the demons. It was admittedly much better than how you had fared at the Temple, but even so, you couldn’t help but notice how a pair of eyes was always on you during combat, watching, observing. _Cautious_ didn’t even begin to describe Cassandra Pentaghast.

                Alan was more interesting than you had initially realized, not that your last meeting with the Trevelyan had really been anything to write home about. The man was admirably lighthearted about his situation, bordering on foolishness. Even so, he had an endearing way about him despite the fact that his naïveté frequently had you wanting to smack him. You had to keep reminding yourself that he was still young. Twenty-three summers was too few for someone being thrown into a role as weighty as “ _Herald of Andraste_ ”. It was only a year older than you had been when you wound up in Skyrim, so you supposed you could sympathize in a manner. An eye (metaphorically speaking) would be firmly kept on the warrior, you had decided.

                The elf of the group proved to be as you had initially figured: frighteningly intelligent, quiet, observational, pondering – the list went on. But the mage had a wicked sense of dry sarcasm when he wanted to. The respect you had formed for him from your first conversation back in Haven only deepened during your travels to the Hinterlands. You admitted that his rather impressive ability with magic _may_ have played a small part in that development – Solas was a genius with wards in such a way that it made you almost jealous, and his extensive knowledge on the Fade had proven invaluable during your encounters with Fade Rifts.

                Varric…now Varric you weren’t quite sure about. You hated the dwarf (or, _severely disliked_ , at the very least) mostly on principle. He was a friend of Garrett Hawke, from what you had been made to understand, and Garrett Hawke was not one of your favorite people for obvious reasons. Granted, you didn’t know the extent of Varric’s involvement in the murder of the Sabrae clan. You hadn’t asked, and you didn’t quite know how you would take either possible answer. The one thing you were sure of about the archer, however, was that it was rather difficult to feel distaste for him. His sense of humor was agonizingly similar to your own and had you grinning more often than not, and his protectiveness of his crossbow reminded you of Dand’s obsession with his armor. Against your better judgment, you found yourself grudgingly liking the dwarf more and more as the days wore on.

                Personalities aside, you all worked well enough as a team. Solas allowed himself more of a support role, making sure barriers were erected and fortified consistently and shooting off a bolt of lightning here, or encasing a demon in ice there where he could wedge it in. Varric was an amazing sniper with his crossbow and usually hung back with the mage to pick enemies off one bolt in an eye socket at a time, while Cassandra and Alan tended to charge right into the fray, shields and swords swinging and bashing and hacking. That wasn’t to say anything negative about the two’s affinity for strategy. Where one lacked a particular strength, the other had it in abundance, and the plans they concocted were feats of mental prowess that had probably done more to keep the members of your party in one piece than the potions you had brought along. You yourself danced across the battlefield and stabbed where you could, disoriented where you couldn’t strike, and distracted where you were needed. It was a small part you played, but you were just as valued a cog in the machine that was the rest.

                A simple system, but after shaking off the rust of inexperience that came from working with new people, the five of you found it suited your needs just fine.

                “Please tell me we’re almost there? If I see another terror demon, I think I’m gonna’ hurl,” you grumbled miserably as you stalked your way along a dirt path alongside Alan. You had dropped back from your scouting about fifteen minutes beforehand to walk with the group as you were nearing the Inquisition camp that was your destination. The sentiment was true, though – you were getting beyond sick of the demons that had been peppering the road from Haven. Screeching Falmer had been a sound you had thought to have put behind you.

                _Apparently not_ , your mind decided to grumble sourly.

                From the middle of the party, Varric gave a snort, “Maybe that wouldn’t be too bad. Then you’d have to take off the mask.”

                “Nice try, Tethras,” rolling your eyes, you reached back and tried swatting futilely at the stout rogue. “I’ll spare the world the horror of my face, thanks.” He’d been trying the entire trip to catch you without the mask on, but he hadn’t been successful and you could tell the blond was becoming rather irritated. It was beyond amusing, it was _hilarious_.

                Alan laughed, “Oh come on, Lys. With a voice like yours, I doubt you’re even half as ugly as you’re trying to claim.” That was another thing about the Herald – he was charming. Too charming, if you were honest; it seemed engrained, the comments habitual, so you let it slide with minor difficulty. Trevelyan was a fine example of the courteous noble upbringing you loathed, except he hadn’t turned out nearly as bad as most. Probably the touch of good humor, you suspected. Humor tended to make everything a little better-rounded, and he had just enough of a touch of it.

                “Worse,” you deadpanned. “And you haven’t heard me sing. Be thankful you haven’t heard me sing. Last time I tried, an old lady picked up a lute and tried to beat me over the head with it.”

                Varric’s incredulous stare bored into the back of your head, “Really?”

                “Really, really – she thought I was possessed.”

                “I can’t…,” the dwarf pondered a moment, voice wavering and becoming almost small before he shook his head. “I actually can’t tell if you’re shitting me, Prowler.” Cassandra scoffed from her place just ahead of you and Alan, but otherwise didn’t comment. Solas remained silent as well, but you could just imagine his eyebrow piquing in curiosity. It wasn’t every day that Varric Tethras couldn’t sniff out whether or not someone was lying to him. The beardless dwarf was a master of wild tales, if nothing else.

                Wincing at the ghost of a memory, your hand reached up to rub the back of your head where a goose egg had actually once been, “No that really happened. It wasn’t fun. I don’t know what kind of wood that lute was made out of, but I actually had a concussion. It wasn’t a mild one, either.” You conveniently failed to mention that it had been your third year among the denizens of Thedas and you had slipped with noticeable magic. Nothing fancy, you remembered, just a spell for vocal projection as you joined in on one of the bawdy tavern songs, but the old wife of the building’s owner had noticed the small increase in volume. _Oh boy_ , had she noticed.

                You cringed again. That hadn’t been one of your best ideas, but in your defense, you’d been drunk. Which…also was probably not one of your best ideas…

                Gods, you were a moron.

                “What happened to the woman?” Solas asked. Though his voice was otherwise calm and, dare you say, _disinterested_ , there was an underlying tone of amusement that you were able to pick up on.

                “Forget about the woman!” exclaimed Alan. If you could have seen him at that moment, you were sure his eyebrows would have been at his hairline. “What happened to the _lute_?”

                Shrugging, you waved your wrist. “The woman was the wife of the owner of the tavern, so I got kicked out…well, more I ran away after trying to convince her that, no, I was _not_ possessed failed miserably, and she was in the process of calling the local Templars. I don’t know the exact whereabouts of the lute at present. This was about eight years ago now. But when I left, there was a rather sizeable crack along the underside of it. I don’t know if that means the hit was strong, or if I just have a really hard head.”

                Your hand tapped the chin of your mask for a few beats. “Probably both…”

                Varric chuckled, “Damn. I’m sure you’ve got some more interesting stories to tell?” You laughed, too, at the not-so-subtle request, but for a different reason than the members of the party probably thought.

                _Oh, Tethras_ , you smirked, _you have no idea._

                “There,” Cassandra’s voice cut through the conversation like a knife through butter. Her armor clicked together as she lifted a hand to point towards where smoke from a campfire was emitting. It was from atop a hill not five hundred yards away. “We’re nearly to the camp.”

                “Finally!” cheered Alan. You nodded in acquiescence to the sentiment, and before you knew it, the five of you were trudging up the side of the hill towards the camp.

                A feminine voice accented as dwarven was what greeted you as you crested the grassy encampment, “Herald of Andraste! I’ve heard the stories. Everyone has. We know what you did at the Breach.” Well, you certainly _hoped_ she knew. The damned thing was visible from the bloody _Free Marches_ – it was _more than visible_ in the Hinterlands. If she wasn’t able to spot the difference, then she was probably the worst scout leader in the history of scout leaders…

                “It’s an honor to meet you, my Lord,” she gave a small little bow of respect. “Inquisition Scout Harding, at your service. I…well… _all_ of us here will do whatever we can to help.”

                You scoffed a little, but it lacked scorn. “Let’s hope it’s enough.”

                “Harding, huh?” Varric chuckled from next to you, and you resisted the urge to roll your eyes – you knew exactly where it was going. “Ever been to Kirkwall’s Hightown?” You had known it was coming, but still couldn’t help it. You actually slapped your hand over your mask. _Auri-El have mercy, he did_ not _…_

                The scout appeared a little bemused, “No. I can’t say that I have. Why?” You could hear the grin. You could _hear the bloody grin_. Gods, you understood then _exactly_ why Cassandra constantly wanted to stab the dwarf.

                “You’d be _Harding in_ \- …” Varric trailed off, as he seemed to just then be able to hear the nonexistent crickets chirping. Upon realizing his joke hadn’t gone where he wanted it to, he shook his head. “Oh, never mind…” You and Cassandra groaned practically in unison.

                “Er… _that_ aside,” interrupted Alan almost warily, “I’d love to hear about these ‘ _stories_ ’ everyone’s heard.”

                “They’re nothing _bad_. They only say that you’re the last great hope for Thedas.”

                He blanched, “Oh…wonderful.”

                Chuckling heartily, you slapped a hand on the human’s armored shoulder, “Don’t worry. You’re just the last _great_ hope. That means there are _lesser_ hopes to come swoop in and save the day if you fail…somewhere…probably” Alan glowered at you, but the look was halfhearted and only served to make you laugh harder.

                “Swooping is bad,” the warrior muttered. He sobered up from his moping rather quickly and flashed a million-Septim smile the scout’s way, “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Scout Harding, circumstances notwithstanding.”

                The dwarf gave a rueful little grin that seemed strained, “Likewise, but we should get down to business. The situation is…pretty dire.”

                “Of course it is. Breach in the sky, demons everywhere – I thought it’d be nothing but butterflies and rainbows!” you droned sarcastically. No one answered, but Solas did chuckle a bit, so you supposed the quip wasn’t _all_ lost.

                “We came to secure horses from Redcliffe’s old horsemaster,” Harding continued. As she continued to speak, her voice cracked with emotion in a way that almost had you pitying her. “I grew up here, and people always said Dennett’s herds were the strongest and the fastest this side of the Frostbacks. But with the mage-templar fighting getting worse, we couldn’t get to Dennett. Maker only knows if he’s even still _alive_.”

                Frowning, you shook your head distastefully. An exasperated sigh left your lips before you could stop it, but you didn’t really care. _Mage-templar war_ this, and _mage-templar war_ that – it wasn’t just your information trading that the conflict was disrupting, it was peoples’ _lives_. Two sides, scrabbling for power in a war half of them were too zealous over to care about who they trampled in their path, and the other half didn’t even want a part of in the first place. _Damned if they did, damned if they didn’t_. It reminded you so much of the war between the Empire and the Stormcloaks all those years ago that all you wanted to do was scream. The war was the same conflict, just with different players. And much like before, it only exacerbated everyone’s problems.

                “Corporal Vale and our men are doing what they can to help protect the people, but they won’t be able to hold out for very long,” said Harding, jarring you from your thoughts and making you realize your monologue had distracted you from a chunk of the conversation. _Sloppy_ , you reprimanded yourself with a grimace. _Sloppy, sloppy, sloppy._

                She took a shaky breath, “You’d best get going – no time to lose.”

                You took out a dagger and started twirling it as your group began walking. If the sounds of fighting were any indication, you were going to more than need the weapons.

*** 

**Again, you hated being right.**

                Grunting with the exertion, you dodged a blow from a Templar’s broadsword practically by the skin of your teeth and only barely managed to lodge one of your daggers in a weak spot in his armor. He gurgled on an exquisite combination of shock and blood before he crumpled like a puppet with its strings cut. It was a dance, but a dance with morbid results if you chose the wrong step, much like the poor fool you had just felled.

                You’d always liked a good challenge.

                “Hold!” cried Cassandra as she landed a rather impressive blow on a Templar shield. “We are not apostates!”

                “I do not think they care, Seeker!” Solas grit through his teeth as he reinforced the degenerating barrier around Alan. The Herald shot him a grateful look as he habitually lifted his shield to block a rain of several arrows from a nearby archer. Your look soured.

                _Bloody gods damned archers_.

                The barrier that you were encased in wavered as an arrow bounced harmlessly off of it, but the fact didn’t take away from how the feathered projectile had sounded like it had been straight in line with your heart. A bead of sweat dripped down the length of your nose, causing it to twitch. If you got injured, your charade was over. Healing a wound was out of the question, and the plausibility of waiting to tend to a wound on your own depended entirely on how severe it was. Then you would have torn clothing to deal with, which showed skin if you weren’t in a position to stitch _that_ right away. In short, combat was a bit more dangerous for you in several aspects. Your secrets were threatened with every swing of a blade, every twang of an arrow being released from a bow, every sparking waver Solas’ barrier gave.

                Another arrow whizzed past you, and you focused your attention firmly back on the battle. There was no time to worry about what ifs. The only thing you could do – nay, the only thing _you were going to do_ was make damned sure not to let yourself get injured in the first place. If you did, well…you’d improvise, cross that bridge if things came to it.

                Finding the archer proved to be a tad less challenging than you had anticipated, and you were able to smoothly approach from behind and slit his throat without so much as batting an eyelash. If your companions noticed the cleanliness of the kill, they didn’t comment, but you suspected they were all too busy dealing with their own specific foes and watching their backs against the others to really care much for what you were off doing. Your role was mainly support, after all.

                “Prowler, your seven o’clock!” Varric called from… _somewhere_. The twang of his crossbow was evident, as was the thud of the bolt hitting the mark, but you still swirled around and stabbed behind you to your left for good measure. The wet groan of another archer met your ears not a split second later, and you let the body drop without a care as to the blood that coated your arms and was splattered along your front. Blood didn’t really show up on black, so you at least didn’t look too much like you had been part of a massacre.

                Wait…you _had_ been part of a massacre…sort of.

                “Thanks!” you shouted back towards the dwarf. He laughed in acknowledgement before continuing to fire bolts at an impressively fast rate for a crossbow.

                Varric yelled, “What? No protests about the nickname?”

                You parried a blow meant for your neck and lodged a dagger in a poorly armored shoulder, “This is hardly the time, Tethras!” There was that damned grin again, boring into the back of your skull like a Nord’s warhammer. _Bloody dwarf_ …come to think of it, he _was_ an archer…

                Then again, so were you. Or, you had been, anyway. Saying you hated archers was practically the same as saying you hated yourself…

                About the last thing you had been expecting after stabbing a final Templar was a fireball landing not two yards from your face on a tree, but in hindsight, you supposed it should have been obvious that mages would follow after their enemies. It was _their_ battle your entourage had been interrupting, after all. The smell of burnt wood wafted through the air on the cold breeze along with the sound of the struck tree crashing into the blood-soaked ground.

                “Mages!” Cassandra cried the obvious out from somewhere to your right.

                Varric, of course, had to add his two Septims worth, “No, really? I thought they were Darkspawn!”

                “Not all that funny,” you grumbled as you got close to one of the apostates, a young elven woman, and unsympathetically slit her throat. “You ever fought an Emissary? Nasty buggers!”

                Alan’s war-cry was abrupt, and for a fleeting moment you wondered if he somehow had Nordic blood in him it was so ferocious, “You’ve fought Darkspawn?” _Shit_ , you thought as slashed at another mage. The robed bastard managed to leap out of the way just in time, so you only succeeded in giving him a nasty gash on his arm. You had to bend backwards to avoid the sharp, jeweled blade that was fixed to the end of his staff.

                “Several years ago!” You lied through your teeth. “I was apparently closer to a Deep Roads entrance than I thought I was and ran into a scouting party.”

                “I told you – you’ve got some wicked stories, Prowler!” shouted Varric from directly behind you. Jumping a little and wondering just when the dwarf had managed to place the both of you back-to-back, you decided finally to just toss the wonderment of the situation in favor of parrying another attack from a mage’s staff. _Blighted mages_ , you thought sourly. _They’re almost as bad as archers…and_ I’m _a mage, too – damn!_

“We are not Templars!” you heard Solas’ tenor ring out above the general din of battle, and you couldn’t help but send a hidden, incredulous look in his direction. Hadn’t he just criticized Cassandra for saying almost the _exact same thing_ to the Templars…?

                Alan bashed his shield into some poor bloke’s face unflinchingly, “No, but we do have a Seeker, so it’s essentially the same thing!” The aforementioned Seeker’s grumble of how she was right there was amusingly overlooked.

                “Regardless, as _Solas_ stated so aptly before, _I don’t think they care_.”

                Varric snickered at your pointed words, Bianca letting another musical _twang_ shoot a bolt into yet another fleshy target. Had it been from anyone other than the beardless rogue, the gleeful little giggle he gave at wherever the projectile struck would have worried you. Knowing him for even as little time as you had, though, made you realize it had probably just struck somewhere highly inappropriate, _completely_ on purpose. You rolled your sightless eyes as you stabbed at another mage.

                The battle was over almost as quickly as it started – much as they prostrated, Circle mages were by the majority scholars, not fighters. Their magic certainly could pack a punch, but you could tell a good portion of the mages you had fought hadn’t wanted any part of the battle. It was sad. You peered down at where a body had fallen with a wince. Sure, you weren’t the most morally centered person in Thedas – many, including yourself, considered you _amoral_ – but the war…the war was horrible.

                _How can somebody look at these battles and see good being done?_ The question rolled around absently in your head, and you pursed your lips. _There is no_ good _in this for anyone._

                “Are you going to go and speak to the Mother now, Alan?” you called over to where the warrior was discussing cleanup with a few Inquisition soldiers. The flow of conversation paused.

                “Now’s as good a time as any, I suppose,” shrugged the Trevelyan in response, but there was a dreading tone in his voice that you could almost sympathize with. Chantry clergy tended to be difficult to speak to – the majority you’d had the unfortunate pleasure of running into either spoke in riddles or tried to preach with every second word. And _boy_ was there ever a lot of “second words” when dealing with Chantry priestesses.

                Cassandra said, “You go, then. We can help the soldiers clean up this mess.” Your nose wrinkled at being volunteered so airily for the task, but you didn’t complain. To complain would get you nowhere with Cassandra.

                Varric didn’t share your reservations, and clapped his hands once ostentatiously, “Maybe we should leave the short and stocky dwarf out of moving the heavy Templar bodies?”

                “More like ‘ _Let’s leave the squeamish dwarf out of moving the messy, bloody Templar corpses,_ ’ you mean?” you snorted. A glare was your response from both the dwarf and the warrior. Considering Cassandra’s was a bit more threatening to the future wholeness of your vital organs, you decided to follow her silent wishes and keep yourself from antagonizing the rogue any further. Solas’ amused chuckle made that rather difficult, but you figured you’d manage as you hefted a blue-robed mage’s corpse over your shoulder.

 

***

 

 **If looks could have killed, you had a sneaking suspicion** (hope) that Varric would have bitten the proverbial dust hours before. As it was, the dwarf cockily crouched next to you in some brambly bushes somewhere near Calenhad’s Foothold, Bianca trained on a ram off in the distance that you couldn’t see. For supposedly being horrible at hunting, the dwarf had already single-handedly brought down six of the beasts in less than fifteen minutes.

                “’ _Horrible hunter_ ’ my ass,” you grumbled, crossing your arms. You were clearly pouting, not that you would have ever admitted it. When Corporal Vale had told Alan that the refugees were starving and needed food, you had almost laughed at the fact that he was asking your group for help. Two warriors, a mage, a dagger-wielding rogue, and a dwarf who was a self-proclaimed horrible hunter weren’t the most promising people to ask for aid in that particular area, and the fact that the Inquisition agent had thought to was laughable at best. Or, well, it had been at the time. Varric was quickly proving his own statements about his ability on their heads.

                In response to your muttering, Varric shrugged, “I never outright _said_ I’m a bad hunter. I _implied_. Really, I just hate hunting.” Your eyebrow twitched. _He just hated it_? That was like…like…you didn’t even know! It was such a cop-out!

                “I’m not even dignifying that with a response. Just hurry up. We promised Alan and Solas we’d meet up with them and Cassandra when they were done with the bandits and apostate caches.” The five of you had decided to split up to make the tasks the refugees had doled out easier and quicker to take care of. Honestly, they weren’t that difficult – mark some apostate caches, take care of some possible highwaymen, do some hunting. You had even helped an elderly farmer who had lost his grandson to the war hook his oxen up to the yoke and plow, a task the deceased young man had originally taken care of before his death. The refugees, innocent bystanders, were suffering more from the war than the people fighting in it claimed to be. Demons certainly weren’t helping matters, either.

                “Relax, Prowler,” murmured Varric as he lined up another shot. Sure enough, the _twang_ of the mechanism releasing the bolt was closely followed by the tell-tale squeal of a dying animal. “That’s seven. Only three more left. I don’t think Green and Chuckles are going to be anywhere near finished with those bandits yet, and I doubt the Seeker’s found all the supply caches, either.” You rolled your eyes only partially at his logic that your decision to split up the group would increase the time it took to finish the tasks provided and mostly at his incessant use of nicknames. He reminded you more and more of Dand as the days wore on.

                It had taken a good week, but the dwarf had finally settled on a nickname for Alan – “Green”, both in reference to the green color of the mark on his hand and the apparently vibrant verdant shade of his eyes. The fact that the coat he had been wearing when the two had first met had been green in color supposedly only had slight bearing.

                “I just want to get this over with so we can get Val Royeaux over with,” you griped as Varric’s much beloved crossbow gave another _twang_! Mother Giselle had provided Alan with a list of names, Clerics who supposedly would be willing to meet and parlay with the heretical Inquisition. You could tell none in your group were entirely enthused about the impending trip to the Orlesian capital, but then again, who was ever? Orlesian society still managed to make your skin crawl in a very unpleasant way even after eleven years. Their politics almost made you miss the deceit of the Aldmeri Dominion.

                Almost. At least with the Thalmor, stabbing someone in the back and screwing over all of your constituents was rather straightforward. Orlesians somehow managed to make it pretty and complicated. How that was possible, you didn’t right know, but the Orlesians had made it an art. It was mind-boggling and sickening at the same time. It was something you marveled at with a sense of disgust, but try as you might, you couldn’t look away from the gilded wreckage it seemed to twist into right before your eyes.

                “Huh,” Varric mused as he shot another ram, ticking your tally up to nine. “I never would have taken you for one to shun the delicacies of the Orlesian Empire.”

                Your nose wrinkled under your mask, “Uh-huh. I just love the cheeses and fine wines! Oh, and don’t forget the side of despair seasoned with a healthy dose of political bullshit. Summer favorite, you see.”

                In a way, his raucous laughter was worth it considering his last shot went wide and missed the startled ram by several feet. The poor thing bolted from its grazing like a…well, like a startled deer, and you smirked in satisfaction when the dwarf realized his shot had failed. The rant you received on the way back to the Crossroads was worth the priceless look you had managed to glimpse on his face, and you realized in that moment that maybe, just maybe, Varric Tethras wasn’t as bad as you had originally thought him to be.


	11. Chapter 10

Chapter 10

* * *

“ _I never wanted this._  
I never asked for it.  
But this is what you gave me.  
Why would you forsake me?” 

-Gemini Syndrome, “ _Basement_ ”

* * *

 

**_~Thedas – 9:41 Dragon~_ **

* * *

**The city still mourns,” Cassandra stated** solemnly as you approached the gates to Val Royeaux. You couldn’t fault her observation – the Orlesian capital, while still the gaudy vibrancy you remembered from the several other times you had been within its walls, was somehow outraged and subdued simultaneously. People wore muted colors with more frills than normal, and while they were still eye-catching and bright, the streamers and banners that hung between buildings seemed dulled with tangible melancholy. Val Royeaux was for the second time in less than ten years in mourning.

               A masked woman walking towards you from the other side of the bridge gave a melodramatic gasp of horror and began backing hurriedly the way she had come. You sneered behind your own mask. “Just a guess, Seeker, but I think they all know who we are.” You didn’t spare Varric a glance. Crossing your arms almost threateningly when a young man armed with a pair of daggers eyed your own set with a challenge in his stance, you growled, “Try it, kid. I _dare_ you.” Frightened by something in your countenance, the brunette teen floundered a moment. For a split second he seemed as if he was going to take you up on your offer, but your tone must have made him reconsider as he darted off in the other direction with the slightest yelp. You chuckled, smiling too-widely like a Khajiit that had gotten into the skooma.

                “You enjoyed that,” Solas accused. An eyebrow was raised in your direction, and the observation was laced with amusement. You just smiled wider and didn’t answer.

                The scout you had hazily theorized to be at the edge of your sensory range decided to take that moment to suddenly run up to your group once you reached the first gate. She dropped almost immediately into a bow that seemed a tad too extravagant for the circumstances. “My lord Herald!”

 _Poor Alan,_ you thought with probably more mirth than sympathy when the warrior shifted uncomfortably. Three weeks since the trip to the Hinterlands (time to collect Dennett and return to Haven, rest a bit, and then set out for the capital) had told you that, while a noble, the boy had been raised a little more humbly than most of affluence. He was the youngest, though, and not destined for much other than a simple life dedicated in service to the Chantry. It was almost ironic that he had wound up working for the Inquisition as one of, if not _the_ keystone member.

                “You’re one of Leliana’s people,” said Cassandra, perking up a bit from the road-weariness she’d settled into. “What have you found?”

                The scout’s voice was confident and firm, only wavering once with the news. “The Chantry Mothers await you, but…so do a great many Templars.” That got your interest. Your head swiveled in the scout’s direction, eyebrows raising so high they probably disappeared behind your hairline. Templars? Hadn’t they marched off in a hissy fit to go and fight the mages?

                “There are _Templars_ here?” The alarm in the Seeker’s voice seemed to eagerly reflect your own sentiments of confusion. The unasked question of _why_ was ignored as the kneeling woman continued to babble onwards.

                “People seem to think the Templars will protect them from…from the Inquisition,” she gulped. “They’re gathering on the other side of the market. I think that’s where the Templars intend to meet you.” Snorting, you shook your head.

                Turning to your left to Alan and Cassandra, you said in a dry tone, “Let’s be honest, we expected something like this.”

                “Well,” the Trevelyan mused as he scratched at the stubble lining his chin with humor thickening his tone, “ _resistance_ , maybe – I don’t think _anyone_ was expecting Templars to have suddenly shown up in the capital to personally deal with the heretical _Herald of Andraste_.” The scout’s horrified rebuke went in one ear and out the other. You slightly wished someone would gag the woman – she was entirely too shrill-voiced.

                Your wishes were granted, somewhat, when Cassandra ordered the scout to return to Haven in case you were… _delayed_. _Yeah,_ you thought glumly. _More like thrown into the prisons with the key fed to rabid darkspawn, never to see the sweet light of day again, but who cares about the specifics?_

                Varric shrugged as your group was lead onward by the Herald, “You think the Templars returned to the fold? To deal with us upstarts?” Had it been in any other situation, you would have called the dwarf out on his willing inclusion of himself in with the Inquisition.

                You instead replied relatively demurely for you, shaking your head, “Anything’s possible, but the Hinterlands had me under the impression that the fighting is too widespread and too enthusiastic. It would have had to take a lot of convincing to get them to leave the war just to defend a few Chantry Mothers from little ole’ us.” Doubts were further solidified as more than a handful of shiny metal suits gleamed throughout the gathered crowd once you all cleared the main avenue into the shopping plaza. It was more than a handful too many than you should have seen, and you weren’t the only member of your party to notice.

                “Something does seem… _odd_ ,” said Cassandra with a look on her face like she’d swallowed something sour.

                Alan nodded in acknowledgement, “Be on your guard.” You didn’t need to be told twice as you tensed the slightest bit, ears straining for anything out of the ordinary. A perturbed Chanter was mumbling verses from the Chant of Light, but he was adding his own prayers as well. Aside from that and the scuffling of the crowd, there was nothing you could hear that stood apart from the norm. You weren’t sure if it boded well or ill.

                Rounding the tower in the middle of the plaza and pushing through the crowd gathered before a makeshift platform, you had to give in to the urge to roll your sightless eyes at the preaching woman situated atop the stage. “Good people of Val Royeaux – hear me!” The poor Templar standing behind her had the most awkward look on his face, and you honestly felt for his discomfort. Public speeches that began with “ _People of blah-blah-blah, hear me_ ” never ended well.

                “Together, we mourn our Divine,” the Mother’s Orlesian accent was thick as she spoke with wild hand gestures as if the unnecessary motions would help slam her point home, “her naïve and beautiful heart, silenced by treachery!” You almost laughed – how Justinia could have been considered _naïve,_ you hadn’t the slightest clue. The woman had been one of the most accomplished players of Orlais’ “ _game_ ” that you had ever had the pleasure of trying to avoid. Too many times had her agents tried screwing with your auctions for you to have underestimated her or her deviousness – Justinia had always been the mastermind of every Chantry plot since her election to the office of Divine. Her Left and Right hands, unlike with Beatrix, had merely been her reach, instruments of Justinia’s will instead of the false embodiment of it.

                So, no – the Divine had been anything _but_ naïve.

                The sound of an armored shoe scuffing across pavement off to the right of the crowd drew your attention quicker than flame drew a moth. Your head tilted to the left reflexively, listening. Waiting. A definitive _clang_ met a sensitive, pointed ear amidst the chattering gaggle of Royans, and you nudged Alan none-too-gently to get his attention.

                He sent you an inquisitive look; however any question on his lips died when you signaled towards the source of the sound. Green eyes going wide, the brunette suddenly scowled. “There’s _more_?”

                “That is the Lord Seeker…,” Cassandra whispered abruptly. “Why is _he_ here?” You noticed her pointed glower in your direction, but you could only shrug.

                “Last _I_ had heard he was at the Conclave.”

                Solas leaned on his staff, brow rising as he drawled, “Apparently not.”

                “ _Or_ ,” you snapped with the slightest irritated grimace, “he was _supposed_ to be, but didn’t attend. Contrary to popular belief, I am _not_ omniscient.”

                No one got the chance to reply (though Solas did frown disapprovingly at you something fierce) as the Mother’s ramblings cut through the air, “You wonder what will become of her murderer. Well, wonder no more!” Your blood ran cold when the Mother’s eyes seemed to land directly on your little party. Or, more specifically, they landed directly on Alan.

                “Behold the so-called _Herald of Andraste_!” she sneered, pointing at the human warrior with fire in her eyes. “Claiming to rise where our beloved fell… We say this is a false prophet! No servant of anything beyond his selfish greed!”

                That seemed to have struck a nerve with the Trevelyan, as his hands fisted and he began to shout over the raucousness of the crowd. “Enough! I will not listen to these self-serving lies! We came here to talk!” To his left, you heard more than saw Cassandra flinch and couldn’t help but somewhat sympathize. The older woman was not a diplomat by any means, but it appeared from the rising clamor in the square that she was going to have to try her hand at it. Alan, though nobility, was more brazen with his words than most, and it was threatening to turn around and bite the Inquisition in the ass if it wasn’t headed off carefully.

                “It’s true!” the Seeker attempted to amend. “The Inquisition seeks only to end this madness before it is too late!”

                Murmurs continued amongst the people. You caught snippets, but none of them were entirely positive. People were desperate for something familiar to comfort them during the turmoil Thedas was experiencing. Fractured and splintered as it was, the Chantry provided that, and the masses were more likely to side with the Mothers over a burgeoning institution labeled with such monikers as heretical.

                And then you froze, jolted out of your thoughts when you heard the marching. On your right, Solas tensed, hand gripping his staff a little tighter once he, too, noticed the Templars beginning to move. If Alan noticed to your left, he didn’t react, but Varric warily twitched a hand closer to Bianca.

                “It is _already_ too late!” snarled the Mother as she pointed almost vehemently to her left. “The Templars have returned to the Chantry! They will face this ‘ _Inquisition_ ’, and the people will be safe once more!” You allowed yourself to worry for only the barest fraction of a second, when one of the Templars marched up behind the Mother and proceeded to deliver a swift blow to the back of her head. She dropped to the ground, not even enough time for the venomous look on her face to twist into shock. The gasping of spectators was peppered with a few horrified screams.

                “What in Oblivion…?” you gaped.

                Varric blinked beside you, the grip he’d had on his crossbow’s stock long gone slack. “That was…unexpected…”

                The Lord Seeker, at the head of the small group of Templars, stopped by the dark-skinned one that had been standing behind the Mother. He addressed the man that had knocked out the clergywoman with a greasy smirk, “Still yourself. She is beneath us.” That got your eyebrows to your hairline.

                “’ _Beneath us_ ’?” you breathed quizzically. For a Chantry servant to be so disrespectful towards clergy… “What is he…?” Alan shook himself out of his daze and glared.

                “Was that display supposed to impress me?”

                The Lord Seeker took a moment to appraise the warrior before scoffing. “On the contrary, it wasn’t for you at all.” He took quick strides off the stage, the other Templars following like the diligent little lapdogs they were. You could feel a few beady eyes darting towards Solas and watching his staff with hungry glances – you couldn’t shake the irrational feeling that more than a few of those were locked on you, as well. You consciously made an effort to pull your already tightly-drawn magic farther from the surface out of what you could only describe as paranoia.

                Cassandra pleaded, “Lord Seeker Lucius, it’s imperative that we speak with – !”

                “You will not address me,” Lucius interrupted in a cool tone, barely sparing the woman a glance.

                “Lord Seeker…?” she sputtered.

                The older Seeker whirled around on Cassandra and snarled, “Creating a heretical movement, raising up a _puppet_ as Andraste’s prophet? _You should be ashamed_!” He jeered at Alan, causing the brunette to clench his fists in a rage that you could tell was barely subdued. You touched a hand to the Trevelyan’s arm on the off chance he decided to try anything.

                “You should _all_ be ashamed!” Lucius continued to growl. “The Templars failed _no one_ when they left the Chantry to purge the mages!” Your eyes narrowed behind the mask. While not having known the man personally, there’d been quite the stir when Lucius Corin had been made head of the Seekers of Truth in 9:40 after the odd disappearance of his predecessor. Granted, the _stir_ had been quenched rather quickly by the mage rebellion, but you’d gathered enough about the man. Something drastic had to have happened to have made him act the way he was, and you certainly didn’t like the prospect of it.

                His next words had Cassandra almost flinching back as if he had physically struck her. “ _You_ are the ones who have failed! _You_ who’d leash our righteous swords with doubt and fear!” A pause ensued, and Lucius took a deep breath, appearing to attempt to steady himself before locking his eyes back on the almost awestruck Nevarran.

                “If you came to appeal to the Chantry, you are too late. The only destiny here that demands respect is _mine_.”

                Alan tore his arm from your grasp while you were distracted by the Lord Seeker and gestured wildly, “If you’re not here to help the Chantry, then you just came to make speeches?”

                “ _Hardly_ ,” the other man scoffed, sneering rather impressively. “I came to see what frightens old women so, _and to laugh_.”

                The Templar that had been standing behind the Mother suddenly walked up behind Lucius. His chocolate-skinned face was pinched together in something akin to worry, perchance indecisiveness. “But, Lord Seeker…what if he really _was_ sent by the Maker? What if – ?”

                “You are called to a higher purpose!” drawled the lightly armored man who had rendered the Mother unconscious. “Do not question!” He then proceeded to walk off and join his comrades, standing just in front of them in a manner that haughtily stated his superiority over them – a ranking officer, probably.

                “ _I_ will make the Templar Order a power that stands alone against the void. _We_ deserve recognition, independence!” The other Templars and Seekers gave a universal salute at Lucius’ words, but you yourself just thought them crazed. “You have shown me _nothing_ , and the Inquisition… _less_ than nothing.” He executed a very smart turn on his heel.

                “Templars! Val Royeaux is unworthy of our protection! We march!”

                Like something out of a novel, the Templars gathered in the square simultaneously rushed to formation, kicked about on their heels, and neatly filed their way towards the city gates. It was a perfectly executed march, not one soldier stepping out of line or even so much as tilting his head. You weren’t quite sure what to make of it, truth be told. It was all a little _too_ perfect for comfort.

                Varric, of course, was the one who decided to break the tense silence between the five of you with a mumbled, “Charming fellow, isn’t he?”

                “Has Lord Seeker Lucius gone _mad_?” floundered Cassandra, finally seeming to have found her voice.

                “Do you know him very well?”

                She turned to face Alan, whose green eyes were undoubtedly still smoldering with anger. “He took over the Seekers of Truth after Lord Seeker Lambert’s death. He was always a decent man, never given to ambition and grandstanding. This is very bizarre.”

                You nodded in agreement, hand reaching up to fiddle with your mask. “I’ve heard that he agreed with Justinia’s idea for a conclave, rather enthusiastically, too… _‘The Templars failed no one when they left the Chantry to purge the mages._ ’ Correct me if I’m wrong, Cassandra, but that seems an odd thing for him to say.”

                “If that is the case, perhaps appealing to the Templars for help is not the best of ideas?” Solas suggested. Alan darted his eyes between the elf and human woman a few times, before heaving a heavy sigh.

                He acquiesced grudgingly, “It doesn’t look like we’ll be getting the Templars to help us after all.”

                “I wouldn’t write them off so quickly,” defended Cassandra. “There must be those in the Order who see what he’s become.” The woman was insistent on the good of the Templars, you’d give her that much.

                Varric grumbled, “Well, we’re not going to be deciding anything _here_. Probably better if we make our way back to Haven.” He gave an odd sideways glance to a passing nobleman with a rather questionable gait in emphasis to the _real_ reason behind his point. The youngest Trevelyan child didn’t seem to get it, however, as he chuckled while slapping a hand on the dwarf’s low-standing shoulder.

                “I’m sure we can spare _some_ time!” he said jovially, any apprehension he may have felt about the situation suddenly evaporated in a cloud of cheer. “I’ve never been to Val Royeaux! I want to look around a bit.”

                You glared at Solas when he slowly nodded in agreement. “It _would_ be a good idea to stock up on supplies while we’re here and able.” Sound reasoning, you admitted, but _still_. The very thought of staying in the Orlesian capital for a moment longer than necessary made your skin crawl.

                …bloody Orlais…

                You crossed your arms and rolled your eyes. “Well, if you’re going to go traipsing about this gods-aw –” A sound, very, _very faint_ , reached your ears, causing you to cut yourself off abruptly. It took a split second for you to recognize it, and you dove at the person nearest you (Varric, as it so happened) and tackled them unceremoniously to the ground. “ARCHER!” The others, startled and almost ready to attack _you_ after the move towards Varric, quickly heeded your warning once vocalized and dropped to the ground in quick succession. Several confused passersby were cued to do the same. They were just in time as the _twang_ of an arrow releasing was followed quickly by the projectile thudding gracelessly into a niche between flagstones – a particular gap that had only moments before been obstructed by Cassandra’s unprotected head.

                “ _Andraste’s flaming ass_ ,” gasped Varric as he started to push himself to his feet. “What _was_ that?” You slammed a hand onto the ground. While not an ideal way to scope out your surroundings, it was better than relying on listening for something amidst all of the screaming that had begun emerging.

                Solas coughed. “I think the better question is ‘ _who_ ’.”

                You barely heard him, too focused scanning the hazy outline of a handful of nearby ledges that would have made for an excellent sniper perch. Lips pursed thinner and thinner as you found absolutely nothing with each pass you made.

                Alan staggered to his feet and stumbled over to the arrow. He yanked it out of its resting spot lodged in rocky mortar and tore something from it. “There’s a letter – hey, wait! Lys!” The warrior cut himself off as you suddenly bolted from your spot on the ground towards the east wall of the plaza.

                “I’ll catch up!” you cried over your shoulder as you proceeded to shove your way past several bemused civilians and launch your way up to grip a second-story windowsill. Using that as leverage, you continued to scale the wall towards the balcony that had caught your attention, towards where you could still hear footsteps trying to make a hasty retreat. Taking note of their volume, or lack of abundance thereof, you smirked. Now that you knew what you were listening for – an archer using high ground, as a bow was too obvious and cumbersome to hide in a crowd unless they stashed it, thin, light-footed – you had decent confidence in having a good chance of finding the shooter no matter how far they ran.

                Scuffing sounded to your left and you followed it. A pebble, or more likely a chip off of a brick, clicked against the pavement of the ledge when it fell. So, going up were they? You followed suit, ignoring the comments from spectators below before pulling yourself onto a rooftop and disappearing from their sight altogether.

                Chinking tiles…and _stop_. Creaking wood. You rolled to the side at the last minute as an arrow thudded where you had been standing. More patter atop roofing sounded when the archer began running again. There was a breathed curse you couldn’t quite make out, and with the rush of air by your ears and the distance between the two of you, you couldn’t place a gender with any certainty.

                Giving chase again, your sprint lasted only around five minutes and three leaps across rooftops before you were forced to duck behind a chimney to avoid another arrow.

                “ _Syrabane’s bloody ring!_ ” you hissed as a sudden burning pain blossomed on your right arm just under the shoulder. A second arrow whose trajectory you had accidentally miscalculated clattered along ceramic tiles somewhere behind you, and your left hand flew up to try and staunch the blood. It was barely even a graze, but your sleeve had been torn enough that you could feel skin showing. _Damn_ , you thought. There wasn’t time to dwell on it, though.

                Clenching your teeth with renewed vigor, you darted out of your cover towards the still stationary archer. A high pitched giggle followed by “Oh, bugger!” finally pegged the figure as female. She hastened to her feet through a moment of clumsiness before racing to the edge of the roof the two of you were currently on.

                In a split second, it felt like someone had taken a bucket and washed away any of the excitement the chase provided. Your arm was stinging something fierce, and you were more than sick of it – it had started out _entertaining_ , dare you say, but it had drug on long enough. _Longer_ than enough, you admitted sourly as you pulled out one of the small knives from your belt and tossed it in the girl’s general direction.

                As expected, it went far too wide and didn’t even come remotely close to hitting her (you were honestly shocked it had even made it as far as it did), but it did its job in startling its target. She slowed just enough that by the time she reached the edge, she yelped and had to scuffle backwards lest she fall to the pavement four stories below.

                It was an opportunity, though, and you took it wholeheartedly. She was barely able to turn around in time to block your grab for her arm, and you entered into a precarious dance defined mostly by the two of you trying to scrabble away from the edge of the roof while attempting desperately to throw the other one off of it. It was by no means graceful and probably looked more like a fumbling mess instead of a true brawl. All the scuffling, however, gave you a couple of opportunities to get a vague impression of the archer’s face. She was elven, with the slim build you had theorized earlier and choppy light-colored hair of a shade you were hesitant to peg. Her skin was fair and face devoid of _vallaslin_ , so you suspected she was from somewhere south in Thedas. Or, at the least, a place that didn’t get much sun.

                “Shite, pissface, _arsebag_!” yelped the girl with each frantic jab. You raised a brow as you dodged a blow meant for your head. Her accent was clearly Fereldan. And while to the untrained eye her attacks were rather more flailing than fighting, there was some finesse to it. It was street fighting if you’d ever seen it. Messy and mostly improvised, but it got the job done.

                In other words, it was your kind of fighting.

                Hindering two more attempts to incapacitate you, you managed to grab a forearm and wrench it behind the elven girl’s back. It was for naught as you quickly learned considering she made easy work of jerking herself free. She was more skilled than she appeared – a wildcard in and of herself. However, like her, you had more than several tricks up your tattered sleeve.

                Knives meant merely to disable and not to kill thudded harmlessly into a wooden bow that was brought up just in the nick of time to block, and you cursed under your breath as you swept to the side to avoid a perfectly executed roundhouse. This ended up being to the girl’s disadvantage, though, as it provided you a means to grab hold of her leg and trip her up. She fell with an ungraceful squawk to the tiled roofing and laid there dazed long enough for you to properly restrain her. A whimper fell from her lips under your iron touch, but you suspected it had more to do with her situation than the firmness of your grasp.

                “Blighted shitelicker…”

                “Enough of this – who are you? An assassin?” you breathed, but the accusation itself carried little weight. The girl just didn’t seem the type – she was too…disorganized. You were winded from the scuffle and winced at the sound of air rushing in and out of your lungs in sharp gasps.

                The elf, exhausted as she undoubtedly was, seemed to rear to life, “Like I’m gonna bloody tell you!”

                Scoffing, you replied, “I’ll give that you’re a slippery one, but giving up information is usually what one does when one is captured.”

                “Yeah, _usually_ ,” she snapped. “And it’s not like I intended to get caught in the first place, you fancy-speaking poncyface!” Your eyebrow rose.

                “Hmm. Colorful.”

                The next thing you knew, one of her arms was forced out of your grasp with more strength than you had thought the girl capable of. “How’s _this_ for colorful!?” The sound of glass breaking, a flask, followed only a second later. A noxious odor suddenly assaulted your sensitive nose, and you bent over in a coughing fit you hadn’t been expecting. There were footsteps lightly bolting away from your location on the roof, but you barely heard them over your own hacking and the way your head was swimming from whatever had been in the flask.

                You stumbled backwards once the coughing had cleared enough for you to trust your balance. Air had never tasted sweeter. Whatever had been in the flask the girl had smashed hadn’t been intended to knock you out, it had been intended to distract. And it had performed its job _perfectly_. _Note to self_ , you thought glumly, _find a way to put a filter in the mask_.

                “Gods _damn_ it!” You pressed a hand to the roof and looked around angrily. The girl was nowhere to be found. A breeze stirred by smelling of dirty, stagnant water almost as if to add some unnecessary drama to the moment.

                She’d gotten away.

***

 **A harsh slap to the shoulder** was what met you when you managed to make your way back to the main shopping plaza. You supposed you deserved it – in hindsight, running off without explanation as you had probably had not been one of your best and brightest ideas. That didn’t mean the strike from a palm utilizing momentum from a heavy gauntlet was painless. No, it was quite the opposite, you grimaced as you reached a hand up to gingerly rub the tender flesh beneath freshly-sewn fabric you were sure was going to bruise around the cut you hadn’t thought to waste magika on healing.

                “Ow.”

                “Where in the Void did you bloody go?!” Alan all but screeched in your ear. “No, scratch that – how did you do that and can you teach me?” For some reason, the addendum made you scowl.

                Snatching your shoulder out from where it had remained somewhat under the Trevelyan’s grip, you grumbled, “Lots of practice. And no, I can’t teach you. It was ages since I’d last done it and I’m amazed I was still able to.”

                “You didn’t answer about where you went,” Cassandra’s voice cut through the air like a hot knife through butter, and the acid in it made you wince. “You want us to trust you, and then you go charging off…”

                You replied calmly, “I caught sight of the archer and went after her.”

                Her glare turned sharp. “Be that as it may, you should have told us what you were doing.” Varric had humorously edged his way behind Solas, the elf shooting him an odd glance in response. Had you not been fending off a potential lecture, you would have laughed.

                Shaking your head, you dismissed the thought of arguing against her. “Alright, but I’m not going to apologize for reacting to something that could have been a threat. That arrow almost hit your head, Cassandra. For all I knew, it was meant for it.”

                The Seeker’s glare faltered for a fraction of a second. A gauntleted hand twitched as if it wished to touch her forehead but was barely restrained. It took a few moments of terse silence, but the older woman eventually relented with a heavy sigh and nonchalant wave of her hand. The way she shifted on her feet told you that all of the excitement for the day had drained her – she wasn’t in the mood to argue, and that suited you just fine. Neither were you.

                Coughing awkwardly, Varric shuffled out from behind Solas looking uncharacteristically the part of a timid child about to be scolded. “Well, there was a letter attached to the arrow…for what _that_ was worth.”

                “What do you mean?”

                “It’s from a Friend of Red Jenny,” he shrugged. “We deciphered to look for red…things. We found two already.”

                Your nose scrunched up in distaste. “Ugh. Not _those_ morons. I hate working with them. There’s a regular buyer out of Starkhaven who was a Friend. Can never get a straight answer out of them other than “screw the nobles” – it drives me batty.” Across from you, the Seeker snorted. She shuffled on her feet, but the movement was laced with a perpetual exhaustion that seemed to loom over the group like a sabre cat ready to pounce.

                “Why work with them if you do not like them?” she asked. Slowly, ever so slowly, you turned your head to more concretely face her direction, tilting it to the side as if for emphasis.

                “Uhh…,” you said slowly. “They paid well…why not?” The question was a serious one. In your line of business, it didn’t matter if you liked your clients or even agreed with what they stood for. Even then, you personally couldn’t care less so long as they paid you their dues. The more information you traded, the more you heard. And the more you heard, the closer you were to figuring out exactly what had happened to Nirn. Your clients could assassinate the bloody empress with your information so long as you got your coin and the little bump in reputation that came with a clean transfer.

                At least, you felt so.

                Whatever point the Seeker had intended to make apparently died, as she instead settled for shaking her head with a heavy sigh. “Never mind. Did you find anything out about this archer?”

                At this you brightened considerably. “She’s an elf, blond, a little shorter than me, actually. No _vallaslin_ and her accent’s Fereldan, so I’m going out on a limb and saying she’s probably not Dalish. We scuffled; girl’s a street fighter and much stronger than she looks, so I’m assuming she’s from a city.” You suddenly thought a moment, remembering her rather colorful vocabulary and barked out a laugh. “She curses worse than a sailor, too.”

                “Wait,” Alan’s eyebrow rose. “You ‘ _scuffled_ ’ with her?”

                “…Yes…”

                He pointedly glanced around the half-empty square, “Well, where is she?”

                …

                Your lack of an immediate answer had everyone giving you half-irritated, half-amused looks that caused a blush to darken your cheeks a strange shade of orange. “She, um…really likes bombs?”

                Varric was struggling to hold in his laughter. “She got away, didn’t she?” Your head hung.

                “Yeah…,” you almost whined. That did it – Cassandra slapped her palm against her forehead, the dwarf doubled over and roared with laughter, and Solas mercifully only gave a few short chuckles more out of bemusement than actual humor.

                “What do you mean ‘ _she got away_ ’?!”

                If there was nothing else you learned on that trip to Val Royeaux, it was that the only thing worse than having to actually be within the city walls was being chased around them by an irate Cassandra.

*** 

**“Y’know, I think my arm’s bruising.”**

“ _Maker’s breath_ ,” muttered the Seeker in response as she ran some guard dressed in shoddy leathers clean through. The small little alleyway the Friend of Red Jenny notes had led you all to was lit dimly by a few torches and the overhanging glow of moonlight. Such made it difficult to see for those in your group who relied on it, save for when Solas casted the wayward spell and brilliantly lit up the small crevasse with spirit magic. However, it conversely made it difficult for your opponents to land any hits of substance, so that was something.

                It seemed as if the archer had wanted Alan to look for something, something that would (apparently) help the Inquisition. You yourself weren’t quite sure what to make of it, but you had a bet of ten sovereigns with Varric that the notes were probably leading you to some noble. Friends of Red Jenny _always_ had something to do with nobility – you had no reason to believe that the situation would prove to be any different.

                In the meantime, however, you had decided to take a page from Varric’s book and rib at the Seeker for some entertainment. She’d chased you down a few streets in Val Royeaux over you letting ( _not_ of your own volition, you were quick to defend) the archer get away, and had ended up dragging you out of the market by a too-firm hand on your already cut arm that you had still neither bothered nor had the chance to heal. So far, you’d elicited three curses, seven mumblings of “ _Maker’s breath_ ”, and two prayers to Andraste for you to cease being able to speak. And it was more than amusing to listen to her stew, as she had no reason to force you to leave the Inquisition – you’d already proven yourself in the Hinterlands and by running a few errands in Haven. So the most Cassandra could do was curse and scowl.

                And _gods_ was it ever hilarious.

                “Do you _really_ think it a good idea to antagonize her so much?” Solas asked blandly as he called lightning to arc between the last two guards with a deft flick of his wrist. The cried out and made a few jerky motions courtesy of the electricity coursing through their limbs before they dropped like rocks and lay still.

                You shrugged the question off as you did a quick sweep to assure no more enemies remained before sheathing your daggers at their usual spots on either side of your hips. Alan was already walking towards another door on the other side of the alley, and the four of you remaining hurried to catch up as he pried the wooden slab open…

                …only to narrowly dodge a raging ball of flame.

                “ _Herald of Andraste_!” a voice growled. You tiredly pressed a hand to the doorjamb. “How much did you expend to discover me? It must have weakened the Inquisition _immeasurably_!” A (predictably) masked Orlesian met you, decked out in the finery you had been expecting, doublet bearing the crest of a minor noble house you vaguely recognized. You giggled gleefully and dropped your other hand out to Varric palm-up, fingers wiggling.

                “He’s a noble; I called it – _and_ a mage, to boot! My coin, if you please, dwarf?”

                Said dwarf blinked at you a moment before grumbling and unhooking a leather purse from somewhere on his belt. “Yeah, yeah. Just don’t spend it all in one place, okay Prowler?”

                Alan replied to the noble, ignoring the exchange of money going on behind him, “I don’t know who you are…should I?”

                “You don’t fool me! I’m too important for this to be an accident,” snapped the noble, shaking his head as he paced slightly. “My efforts will survive in victories against you elsewhere!”

                “Great,” drawled Varric, “Arrow-girl led us to someone who wants to kill us. Why do we never meet anyone sane?”

                You drew a dagger, ready for a fight as Solas responded, “I believe that would be too easy.” A door suddenly slamming open, followed by the familiar _creak-twang-thud_ of an arrow being drawn back, released, and slammed home in a fleshy target sounded. All eyes swiveled to where a short flight of stairs led upwards, to where a rather familiar elven archer was drawing back an arrow pointed straight at the nobleman’s face.

                “Just say, ‘ _what_ ’!”

                The fancy-masked face contorted into a sneer, “What is the – !?”

                And an arrow promptly skewered itself through his skull with a wet squelch. Your jaw dropped – it had been an audacious thing to do. Overkill, if one wanted to go so far.

                “Eww,” the girl shuddered as she slung her bow onto her back and walked towards the fallen noble to yank the projectile out of the corpse. “Squishy one, but you heard me, right? ‘ _Just say_ “What” _._ ’ Rich tits always try for more than they deserve.” She shook her head.

                “’ _Blah, blah, blah! Obey me! Arrow in my face!_ ’” A little giggle put you on edge when she walked up to Alan. “So, you followed the notes well enough. Glad to see you’re... You’re kind of plain, really. All that talk, and then you’re just…a person.”

                You crossed your arms, “What, you thought he’d be ten feet tall and eat ogres for breakfast or something?” The choppily-cut blond head snapped in your direction, and the grin she flashed you was…unsettling.

                She shrugged you off, continuing to address the human. “It’s all good, though, ‘innit? The important thing is: you glow, right? You’re the herald…thing-y?” Alan shot her a skeptical look.

                “Alright, yes. I glow. What’s this about?”

                “No idea; I don’t know this idiot from manners,” she said airily. “My people just said the Inquisition should look at him.”

                You dryly intoned, “More like make the Inquisition do their dirty work for them.” It was a waste of breath, though, as your words went in one ear and out the other.

                “My name is Sera,” she turned to a stack of crates and gestured. “This is cover. Get ‘round it. For the reinforcements. Don’t worry – someone tipped me their equipment shed.” _Oh_ , you thought. _They won’t be armed, then_.

                “They’ve got _no breeches_.”

                You had never wanted to smack someone so badly in your life.


	12. Chapter 11

Chapter 11

* * *

“ _I wish that I could cry, fall upon my knees.  
Find a way to lie about a home I’ll never see.”_

\- Five For Fighting, “ _Superman (It’s Not Easy)_ ”

* * *

 

**_~Thedas – 9:41 Dragon~_ **

* * *

**_Scratch, scratch, scratch!_** _Scribble, scribble! Scratch, scratch!_ Your nose wrinkled as you reread the line you had written on the parchment, but you decided to leave it as it was. A misshapen dwarven rune amidst your already hesitant chicken-scratch would give Dand something to chew on, if nothing else. Careful not to miscalculate the distance, you brought the quill you were writing with over to the small pot of ink and coated the tip of the feather in the dark liquid again. The excess dripped with finality, _drop, drop, drop_ , until you swiped the utensil on the edge of the container.

                _For what it was worth_ , you grumbled, you were penning an update to Dand. A week since Val Royeaux and no signs of rebellion from you had given Leliana cause to allow you correspondence outside of Haven, as well as freedom to roam the tiny village as you pleased. That didn’t mean by any stretch of the word that you had actually taken her up on the offer. You rather liked your solitary little cabin. The only other spot you would have even thought of haunting had been the tavern, but that particular hideaway had been claimed rather soundly by Sera.

                After her little stunt with the arrow and the breeches, you’d be _damned_ if you stood longer in a room with the elf than necessary. She was lucky you hadn’t throttled her on the way back to Haven – the thought had certainly crossed your mind plenty of times on principle for nicking you on that rooftop.

                _Snap!_ Your eyes closed at the sound, and a breath was slowly drawn in through your nose before you dared open them again. The muddled outline of the quill met you when you did, broken tip and all. The urge to fling the thing across the room was strong, but you could have probably attributed half of the malcontent to the memory of nearly getting stabbed by a sword that _should have been taken instead of a pair of breeches_.

                Instead, you calmly (Varric probably would have described it as _too_ calmly) placed your quill on the wooden table serving as a desk next to the inked parchment. The following two minutes were spent with you sitting still, focusing on keeping your breathing even and anger calmed. Your sparse knowledge of combined with your lack of control over destruction magic meant things had a habit of spontaneously combusting when you were angry, and you were rather partial to the _very flammable_ furniture in your _very flammable_ house. Your clothes weren’t exactly flame-retardant, either, come to think of it.

                Once the feeling of wanting to punch someone (preferably Sera or Varric, you weren’t picky) subsided and you’d fetched another quill, you tested the ink on the parchment. Adan, Haven’s resident alchemist-playing-healer, had mixed it up for you upon request that it be fast-drying, as in order to really read what you wrote you had to touch the page and didn’t want to risk smearing the writing. So far, you had yet to be disappointed with the results considering not a single smudge marred any of the three pages.

                _Blah, blah, blah, won’t sell anything on the civil war, blah, blah, blah_ , you skimmed over the contents. You’d already written your… _associate_ once to tell him where you were and what was going on. You weren’t exactly happy with the fact that he knew, but it had been done more out of a security thing than just to allow him to keep tabs. If something went south or happened to you, at least someone had an idea of where to look. And if nothing else, Dand knew how to run your network.

                He’d written back rather incredulous that you had even had the inkling of a thought to join with the Inquisition. You were certain that there had been some sort of teasing involved in the way he had phrased it, but you hadn’t bothered to recognize it and couldn’t be bothered further to search for it.

                The letter you received had gone on to mention that activity on dead drops had increased significantly since the formation of the Breach, but once a week had gone by with no new information posted, “traffic” as you liked to call it had ceased almost entirely. People wanted to know about the Inquisition, about the Breach, about the rebellion, or about the Orlesian Civil War. The first two, you explained, you wouldn’t disclose for fear of compromising the shaky trust you had established. The third and fourth options you simply would _not_ , under any circumstances, involve yourself in even if said involvement was neutral and passive. They were both a mess and you didn’t want to deal with it, bottom line.

                _Keep with the mercenary work_ , you chewed your lip as you read. _Also keep an ear out – I’ll do the same here, but_ nothing _gets put up for auction before I authorize it._

                Dand wasn’t going to like that last part, but he was just going to have to deal with it. Shaking your head, you scrawled some half-assed closing paragraph before signing it with a random pseudonym that Dand would be able to understand. You both chose new ones every letter even though they all were written in code – call you paranoid, but you hadn’t been caught yet.

                Heaving yourself up from your hunched position over the table-turned-desk, you lifted your arms high above your head as you curved your back. Several satisfying pops ensued from your spine, and you sighed as the feeling of pressure was abated. You made quick work rolling and sealing the parchment before walking towards one of the side windows facing the healer’s shack.

                A charcoal feathered messenger crow lifted its beak and ruffled its wings at you in anticipation when it noticed your approach. “Beaker, hey boy.” Tegna’s bird nipped almost lazily at the offered finger.

                “I need you to take this back to Dand for me, okay?” Beaker trilled, head cocking to the side. A slow blink of unnatural crimson eyes confirmed that the order was understood. You smiled conspiratorially behind the mask as you tied the message to his leg.

                The crows used as messenger birds in Thedas were a type you had never encountered in Nirn, alien in coloring and size. They seemed to be a kind of crow or raven, but were almost as big as a large hawk. Red eyes were an oddity, too, a rare enough color in the birds you had been raised around but something almost common in Thedosian ones. There were streaks of red underneath their eyes and a large spot along their backs making them look as if they’d been dipped with blood. It was a manner that unsettlingly reminded you of Daedric armor, but you supposed it also could have been the color scheme. Beaker was no exception, his ruddy eyes seeming direr against the pigment of the same shade smeared under them.

                Once the note was sufficiently secured, Beaker seemed to give you a nod before hopping out the cracked window and flying off into the sky. You spared a few moments to listen to his wing beats disappear from your sensory range, then busying yourself with meandering over to your bed and pulling your gloves fluidly back onto your hands. Some food sounded divine right then, and the tavern was calling your name, Sera’s presence there notwithstanding in face of your growling stomach.

                The cold hit you the moment you opened the door. Not that any particular moment during your stay in Haven could have been considered remotely _warm_ in comparison. The village was itself situated on a mountain, in Ferelden, very much in the cold. There would always be that part of you, the part raised in temperate Cyrodiil, which abhorred the frigidity. But the rest of you, the bit that spent the better part of two years fighting back the Thalmor across Skyrim’s tundra, which could only place the snow and ice as _home_ – that was the side of you that basked in Ferelden’s familiarity, however slight. It made for a nostalgia trip every time you ventured outside.

                You didn’t think you’d ever be quite sure how you felt about it, either.

***

**_~Nirn – 4E 202~_ **

***

**_Saying the week had not been kind would have been a monumental understatement_ ** _. As it had been, freezing rain had slapped against your piss-poor shelter for days, the torrents showing no sign of relenting and draining morale with each passing hour. Before that, it had been an accidentally stumbled upon nest of frostbite spiders and skeevers somehow managing to co-habitat in relative peace. Lairah and Saeta had ended up poisoned by the arachnids despite your and Vienelé’s best efforts. They had only then been coming out of the fever._

_What had been a simple mission to find a Thalmor cell and retrieve information on troop movements had almost predictably gone wrong at every turn. The way into the tiny base on Lake Honrich, previously a bee farm or something, had been guarded where it hadn’t been on previous recon missions. Then, of course, taking out the guards had ended up messier than intended when one of Vienelé’s spells had gone awry and taken out half of the docking behind the old manor in a rather spectacular explosion._

_You had given the Breton quite a tongue-lashing afterward when the mistake had cost Lurks-In-Shadows part of his tail. It wasn’t entirely needed – the vampire had looked guilty enough over the red-scaled Argonian losing part of a limb, but you had been more than rattled at the mission going awry. You’d apologized once you all had gotten out with the information and had received a small, demure smile in return, along with a mildly sarcastic suggestion that the researcher not tag along on missions anymore. It had been hard_ not _to agree with the request. The only reason Vienelé had been along in the first place was because you had been a man down, Falion back in Morthal caring for a sick Agni._

 _Then, as your_ amazing _luck would have had it, an unseasonal blizzard had decided to crop up on your way back to the aforementioned city. You had been forced to take shelter in an old, crumbling Nordic tomb, the exterior dome only half there and forcing you inside the maw of the proverbial beast that wasn’t in much better condition than the outside. The first few days hadn’t been bad, just a bit eerie what with being surrounded by corpses of the Nordic dead. Saeta had felt it the hardest, being Nordic himself, and had taken to trading stories with Lairah to distract from the ancient bodies of his kinsmen._

_The brooding Redguard had surprised you by almost animatedly recounting a few war stories she’d heard from her father. It hadn’t been a good idea. The group had been being chased by Thalmor, probably stalked and spied upon, and you had been adamant that silence would have been best. At the same time, you had supposed the fact that they were about battles of the Alik’r against the Aldmeri Dominion had helped up morale. It had been an insanely tough decision – chance discovery and attempt to keep morale afloat, or rule with an iron fist of silence and fear. You’d chosen the former without much more debate, much to your own chagrin and the palpable relief of your charges._

_Next had come the spiders and skeevers, attacking in the middle of the second night with next to no warning. Had Vienelé and her inhuman senses not been on watch, they probably would have managed to have done more damage. As it was, Saeta had taken a nasty bite in the arm from the largest spider, and Lairah had been caught unawares in the neck by one of the juveniles. She’d been touch-and-go for a while, you remembered. Her jugular had been shredded and half-gone, dripping with poison in a manner that had severely tested your ability in the school of restoration magic._

_So they had recovered, unconscious and feverish but alive, while the blizzard tapered off into a seemingly unending rainstorm. Minor flooding forced you into the cramped back of the leaky tomb’s vestibule, the unnatural silence then broken only by the steady dripping of rainwater thrumming away outside and through the holes in the ceiling._

_A clang had drawn your attention. Spine straightening faster than one would have thought possible, you had been only mildly embarrassed to have found it only been Vienelé shifting restlessly in her sleep. She never had gotten much restful shut-eye in that tomb, vampirism calling her to wakefulness every time a wound re-opened and the scent of blood permeated the air. Her grumblings whenever such occurred as she downed a blood potion to abate her thirst had always been mildly amusing. Dangerous, but amusing._

_“You’re restless.”_

_Jumping, you had taken barely a moment to recognize the hissing voice before calming. “Someone has to be. Little sliver of your tail gets cut off and the big bad lizard goes and gets sleepy on me.” You smirked at the blood-red scales, faded with age, settling beside you. Slit black pupils had_ glowered _at you from where they sat amidst the most brilliant, vibrant blue you had ever seen; a blue that had been clouded with a haze of pain._ Your fault _, you remembered thinking ashamedly,_ all your fault…

_A scaly hand shoved your shoulder. “Shut it, elf. I don’t know how you land-striders can balance with just arms and legs. It’s probably why you keep blundering into traps.” You had the decency to blush orange and smacked the offending hand away._

_“I do not blunder!”_

_“No,” snickered Lurks-In-Shadows as his eyes lit up; whatever pain he had been in had been forgotten. “You’re right – you_ glide _only without the grace.”_

 _You hadn’t intended to growl at him, but once the sound had been made, you couldn’t reign it in. “What is it, pick on Lys month or something?” He frowned (well, as much as an Argonian_ could _frown, anyway), lifting his hands in a “peace” gesture._

_“I was just messing around.”_

_“I…” You sighed, slumping in defeat. “I know. I’m sorry.” Your hands had reached up then almost of their own accord to try massaging back the headache that was rapidly forming. Your eyes had burned, too, and felt heavier than a warhammer, sure signs that your lack of sleep had been catching up to you quicker than you would have liked. Lurks-In-Shadows seemed to have realized it, as his expression turned from curious to somber._

_“It’s okay. We’re all on edge.” His old, rough voice attempted to take on a soothing tone. It was one that on a human or an elf would have come off as sort of a pleasant hum. On him, though, it had instead filtered awkwardly through the gills on the side of his neck and sounded more like a wet gurgle. You had vaguely remembered laughing bitterly at it, humor too much to ignore even through the pain._

_A few moments had ticked by before you mustered up the nerve to shake your head. “No. It’s…they don’t trust me, Shades. Not like you do. How can they? I don’t know what Jarl Idgrod was_ thinking –”

                _“_ Don’t _.” Though his voice had been firm, a grin had conversely been splitting his maw in two to reveal the (terrifying) rows of pointy teeth lining his gums. Had you not known the Argonian for as long as you had, the sight would have probably unnerved you. It certainly had the first time. “The Jarl wouldn’t have picked you to lead this if she didn’t think you were capable of it. She probably would have Seen something.” You had winced._

 _“I almost got Lairah and Saeta_ killed _.”_

_He gestured to the unconscious humans, still but breathing. “Do they look dead to you?” Your head had fallen, chin limply hanging above your collarbone._

_“They might as well be,” you had whispered._

_“But they’re_ not _because of you, kid,” insisted the assassin. “They don’t trust you. We’re fighting_ Altmer _fanatics with an unhealthy obsession with double-agents; I’d think they’re crazy if they trusted our_ Altmer _squad leader right off the bat. Maybe this won’t help matters any, but you know what? Jarl Idgrod trusts you, and that’s more than enough for me. It_ should _be more than enough for them, but that’s their problem.” He shrugged in a “_ What-can-you-do?” _manner._

 _You had figured that the old Argonian was right. Jarl Idgrod was always much beloved. She had been the sort of de facto leader of your merry little band of misfits you jokingly called a_ resistance _. You had never really_ resisted _much, more poked and prodded the Thalmor where it pissed them off and knocked them off their game. It had worked for a while, at least._

_And you had trusted Lurks-In-Shadows. Though he had never outright mentioned it, you had known him to suffer some of the same snide looks and comments as you had. Having been Argonian, his (frightening) countenance had always caused men and mer to lean away from trusting him. The fact that he had once demonstrated the ability to kill an entire squad of Thalmor before any of your group had realized what was happening probably hadn’t helped matters any. His guerilla style of battle had always taken the more traditionally military-minded people far off guard. He’d certainly done more than enough to live up to his title of Shadowscale._

_A laugh had bubbled up, “You’re right, as always. Sometimes I wonder who fits the part of old sage better – you or the Jarl.” A hand had flown to his armor-covered chest at the comment, eyes wide in a faux-disbelief that his playfully twitching half-tail laden in bloodstained bandages had quickly belied. Forced shock had dropped his maw, mal-angled teeth making the chipped, short grey tusks around his forehead seem all the sharper._

_“Me? Old? I’m insulted! I’m only sixty-three.”_

_You had tapped Lurks-In-Shadows on the nose, wry smile tugging at your mouth. “Yeah._ Old _.”_

_“Psh! You elves live for, what, eight hundred years? Nine hundred? Sixty-three is young to you,” he had insisted. Indignation had caused him to puff out his chest, a defensive maneuver left over from when his people had still been fledgling descendents of the Hist. It was meant to intimidate, to scare off predators. You had remembered reading about it once. Then, as the species had evolved, it had become more of a subconscious emotional response._

_Still, it had made you grin knowing that you had been pushing his buttons by mentioning age. “I’m only_ twenty _-three. You’re old.”_

_A sinewy arm had been thrown over your shoulders before you had been able to see it coming. “Maybe. But you know what, kid? You’re alright. They’ll see it, I promise.”_

_“Don’t make promises you can’t keep. And get your arm off of me.”_

_“Ah, but I_ don’t _make promises I can’t keep!” exclaimed Lurks-In-Shadows, though he had removed his arm despite the teasing confidence in his raspy voice. “The more you lead them, the more you don’t seem like so much of an outsider.”_

_“Thanks. I appreciate the sentiment.”_

_“But it’s true! You haven’t gotten frostbite in three days! You’re starting to get used to this abominable cold, which could never be said for those goldskin toads…wait…” As your companion’s brain had finally caught up to his mouth and vice-versa, your right ear had flinched with a vengeance._

_And such had ended the story of how the old Argonian Shadowscale had ended up with several scorched tusks and a third degree burn on the crown of his head._

***

**_~Thedas – 9:41 Dragon~_ **

***

 **You were jarred out of the memory by a little girl barreling past you**. The force of her clipping your side startled you more than you cared to admit, and you scowled after her despite the fact that the expression couldn’t be seen. Damn kids.

                The door to the tiny tavern was only a handful of steps in front of where you had meandered, and the proximity only took you slightly by surprise as you yanked it open. Scents of stale beer, body odor, and roast poultry slithered through the edges of your mask to scratch relentlessly at the inside of your nose, an almost rancid combination. Appendage wrinkling, you tried your best to breathe shallow as you made a beeline to the bar. From her little corner, Sera shouted something obscene that you ignored. How she could live in the stench, you would never understand.

                To the barkeep’s credit, she only looked mildly uncomfortable when you pressed your hands across from where hers were resting on the wooden surface. “Can I get you anything?” Her tone was understandably wary – it was the second time you had shown your mask in her tavern. By all accounts, you were still the creepy stranger Leliana had ordered a watch on.

                “Is that chicken I smell?” you asked in what you hoped was a disarming, sweet tone. Barkeepers tended to be some of the best sources of gossip. Scaring her would simply not do.

                The brunette shrugged. “Stew made from yesterday’s scraps, but yeah. ‘Fraid it’s not much, though.”

                You smiled brightly and slid onto one of the stools. “That’d be great, if it’s not too much trouble.”

                As the woman strode swiftly over to a kettle hanging over a roaring fireplace, you took the time to observe the atmosphere of the tavern. It wasn’t much different than any others you had been in, even those back in Nirn, but there was a downtrodden spirit to the place that you hadn’t really found anywhere else. You knew supplies were short at hand in the mountains and the coming winter was threatening to be a bad one, but there was more to it than that. The Temple of Sacred Ashes had been important to the village, something they had protected and defended for generations, probably from its establishment. And then it had been gone in the blink of an eye, the Divine killed all but on their doorstep, some of their own people dead in the frenzy. They were vengeful, angry, scared, and full of opinions they were more than willing to share with everyone, from the casual passerby to the hooded stranger haunting their town. It was a perfect ambience for you to do a little recon. Rage-fueled tongues were often the loosest.

                “What’s your name?” You flicked your chin up from where it had been tucked into the dip of your clavicle. A bowl steaming with thick stew was set in front of you with a dull _thunk_ of chipped ceramic on scuffed wood.

                “Lys,” you replied as you scooped up the spoon and began playing with your food.

                “Flissa,” said the brunette slowly, calculating look on her face. “You gonna’ take off your mask to eat that?” She was very…careful. Your eyes narrowed.

                You said aversively, “Maybe. How much?”

                “Three silver.” You passed her five with deft movements, the coins having already been poised in your palm. It was a little pricy even without the tip, but meat and spices were scarce, so the expense wasn’t much of a shock.

                “So,” you began with a firm stir of your stew, “everyone seems pretty worked up today. More than usual.” Flissa shook her brown head, curls bouncing this way and that. Pulling a stained rag from the cloth belt around her hips, she began wiping down the bar and cleaning out mugs. Her movements were jerky, though. Rough as if she was nervous.

                “Don’t go tryin’ to wheedle information out of me. I’m not stupid. I know that’s what you’re doing.”

                You scoffed through your nose. “Leliana tell you that?” Despite the wry drawl, there was a bare undertone that was only threatening for those who knew to look for it.

                The girl passed the test when her cleaning faltered skittishly. “No. I just know it when I see it.”

                “Because you’ve done it before?”

                Flissa went ridged in record time, “No. That ain’t none of your business, anyhow.”

                “...Alright.” You conceded after a minute. “I don’t believe you, but alright. Thanks for the stew. I’ll bring the bowl back.” Pushing yourself to your feet, you loudly gathered up your food and turned on your heel. Flissa tapped her fingers on the bar. When it became clear she wasn’t going to outwardly confirm that you’d figured her out, you threw an airy shrug and turned on your heel to march out of the tavern.

                You didn’t get far.

                “…Storm Coast…”

                A slow smile spread unseen across your face. “I’m sorry?” You edged back until you were standing in front of the bar again.

                The girl glanced around as if waiting for someone to reprimand her. When nothing came, her wringing fingers instead tightly laced together. “Lady Pentaghast, Lord Trevelyan, Lady Vivienne, and the dwarf left for the Storm Coast shortly after you all returned from Val Royeaux. There’s talk of a new member of the Inquisition being recruited there. Folks aren’t happy with the rumors, is all. It’s putting them on edge.” So that’s where they’d gone – you had been beginning to wonder for the past few days where the Herald and his grumpy Seeker, prissy mage, and infuriating dwarf had gotten to.

                “What are these rumors people aren’t liking?” You questioned, sliding back into your seat as if you’d never left it.

                “They’re saying he’s…,” Flissa bit her lip, “saying he’s Qunari. Joining the Inquisition? It just doesn’t add up, and they know it.”

                Frowning, you retorted, “Why? Because he’s not human? Just because he’s kossith doesn’t mean he can’t believe in the Chant, that he’s not Tal-Vashoth and forsaken the Qun. And if he doesn’t believe in the Chant, that doesn’t mean he can’t be interested in ending this blighted mess. If helping close the Breach was a matter of believing Chantry rhetoric, I certainly wouldn’t be here.”

                “That’s not the point,” argued the barkeep. But her point was thin, and she seemed to know it.

                “Then what is? He could be spying?” You shook your head. “Honey, _everyone_ here could be spying. You are – for Leliana, to keep an eye on the villagers and probably me, but still. If the Breach had opened in Seheron or Tevinter, you can bet your ass the Chantry would have sent spies, or Orlais would have sent delegates who doubled as spies. This is bigger than _Fereldan_ or _the Chantry_ – this is threatening Thedas as a whole. In the end, it won’t matter what religion or lack thereof you follow. Dead is dead if this doesn’t get stopped.”

                “You’re puttin’ too much faith on everyone dropping their differences. Void, they could have _started_ it.” she pointed out sourly.

                You conceded, “And that’s a very valid point. We need to figure out the variables before we can start pointing fingers. Until then, we take all the help we can get. At least if they are spying, they have to act the part. I’m not going to complain about having a Qunari between me and a warhammer, my side or not.”

                “Until that Qunari is aiming that warhammer at your back,” snorted Flissa, returning to her endeavor of making her bar some semblance of clean. “You’d be complaining then.”

                “Nah,” you grinned. “I think I’d just throw the dagger at his throat and call it a day. You ever seen those guys? It’s like they’re _begging_ for someone to stab them in the chest, fancy armor-poison-blood paint or not.”

                “It’s called Vitaar.”

                Gathering up your things once more, you stood. “ _That_ was the name. Leliana teach you, or did you pick this up when you were spying for her before? Can’t imagine you see too many Qunari up around these parts just ‘ _passing through_ ’.”

                Flissa pursed her lips. “I owned an inn in Denerim. I’d hear things, pass the information to Lady Nightingale. People here need to eat, have somewhere they can go at the end of the day. Leliana suggested I open shop and listen. Some things stick the more you hear them.”

                “How soon after I arrived did she ask you to start getting information on me?”

                Her cleaning paused and she blinked up at you with wide, dark eyes. “What makes you think I was told to spy on you?”

                “I’m a very good information broker,” you drawled, eyebrow raised as you shook your head. “Well, that and our lovely spymaster was rather irked that I wasn’t willing to share much on myself. I figured that she’d send someone sniffing after me at some point, though I must profess, I really thought it would be Tethras, or maybe Trevelyan. I don’t exactly frequent your tavern.”

                A small chuckle from the woman was unexpected. “Well, everyone has to eat. Your rations had to run out eventually.” You winced as you remembered the over-dried venison and cold potatoes that had been your meals for the past week until they had become too much for you to stand. _Blegh_ , you pulled a face. You could still taste the overabundance of salt on the back of your tongue, and it made you nauseous. It could probably have been argued that those rations did more to kill people than sustain them.

                “Someone _really_ needs to have a chat with the quartermaster. Or, whomever thinks it takes a bucketful of salt to dry meat.”

                That got the young woman to laugh, albeit only slightly. Sighing, you gripped your bowl and spoon with one hand and threw a small wave.

                “Anyway, I’ll get out of your hair, now. Sorry for pushing about the whole Leliana thing – I had a hunch and wanted to be sure.”

                Flissa blinked her wide eyes. “No, no. It’s…okay. I’m going to have to tell her you figured me out, though. She’s probably gonna’ want to talk to you.”

                “Figures,” you grumbled. “I’ll bring the bowl back. Thanks.”

                As you ducked out of the door and back into the cold, you realized that your stew was mimicking the weather. You suddenly felt like throwing it as you marched up the incline towards your cabin. Groaning under your breath, you resolved to visit the merchant down the way and haggle out a small cooking pot as soon as you were able. Was a hot meal too much to ask for anymore?

***

 **“Wait, so _you’re_ the Shadow Broker?”** a voice asked incredulously from off to your left. Curious and a bit on edge at the baritone, you tucked your newly-acquired cauldron under your arm and turned. Almost instantly, you froze. Leaning against your cabin was probably one of the most imposing figures you had ever laid your hazy eyes on. And you’d fought giants, so that was saying something.

                He was Qunari with the stereotypical bulging muscles, no shirt, seven or so foot frame, and horns straight from Sithis’ nightmares. There were some areas where his ashy skin tone seemed to falter in the slightest, though whether those were scars or merely your shitty touch vision, you couldn’t really tell. Odd, however, was the shape of his horns. They jutted out horizontally from either side of his head and then turned a near perfect ninety degrees upwards. Ending in wicked sharp points, you had a very brief, probably very dangerous thought flick through your mind of using them as effective daggers.

                Quite ironically considering your previous conversation with Flissa, a large warhammer was strapped onto his back. You had to crane your neck just to make the mask appear like you were looking at him. You’d always been short for an Altmer, but this guy made you an ant in comparison. Maybe you were getting a taste of what Varric felt like on a daily basis.

                You were never going to tease the dwarf about his height again.

                “And you’re the Queen of Antiva?” Sarcasm was your instant fallback, your failsafe when your secrets were in danger.

                “Ha!” he barked, shooting you a wicked grin. “I wish! Probably pays a lot better.” The way his smile made the skin crinkle up around his eyes ( _eye_ , you corrected – he had an eye patch over the one on his left) was disarming and unassuming. He had a roguish quality to him despite being a warrior, and reminded you annoyingly of Dand.

                You didn’t like _disarming_ , _unassuming_ , _roguish_ , or _Dand_ in such close proximity.

                “Paid?” You over-faked distressed curiosity, waving your cauldron like a maniac for emphasis. “You mean you’re being paid for this? Who’d you butter up for that deal and where are they?”

                The Qunari’s booming laugh was so loud, you were kind of shocked it didn’t cause an avalanche from the way it echoed. “I’m a mercenary, money comes with the job. You didn’t answer my question. You’re the Shadow Broker?”

                You decided to evade it by cracking open your cabin door to toss the cauldron inside. “You’re the one Alan picked up from the Storm Coast? Mercenary, so…Tal-Vashoth, then? If you don’t give me a name, that’s what I’m going to call you.” That got something – his nostrils flared and his dark eye sharpened, burning with indignation and possibly a little anger.

                His smile would have seemed relaxed to anyone else. But you – you could tell it was forced, wavering. “Iron Bull. My question?”

                “Iron Bull?” Your nose wrinkled. “What kind of a name is _that_? Certainly not Qunari.”

                “Technically, it’s _The_ Iron Bull. I like an article at the front,” shrugged the giant, but his movements were still tense.

                You nodded anyway, uncaring to the fact that you were pushing the man’s buttons. “Makes sense, I suppose. Less personal, more intimidating. Still not Qunari, though.”

                “Still not an answer, though.”

                Silence. He was mocking you. You bit your lip, suddenly curious. This Iron Bull ( _The_ Iron Bull, rather – couldn’t forget the gods damned article) was giving you the run around. He wasn’t just a mercenary. Just like Flissa wasn’t just a barkeep, Leliana wasn’t just an advisor, and you weren’t just a good Samaritan.

                Was nobody who they seemed in this town?

                “Fine. Yes. I’m the Shadow Broker. Who blabbed?” You crossed your arms and mimicked the Qunari’s stance leaning against your cabin.

                “The glow-y one,” he replied, humor glimmering behind his visible eye. Your own hardened. Alan. You were going to have to have a talk with him…

                “But I already knew, so it wasn’t a shock.”

                You stared grimly in Iron Bull’s direction, lips pursed into an impossibly thin line. He never lost his easy smile or haunted twinkle. Yes, there was definitely more to him than met the eye.

                “Already knew…,” you drawled. Suddenly, it hit you, and the barked laugh was unavoidable. “Oh, rich! How long have I been on the Ben-Hassrath’s shit list, then?”

                His grin widened. “You’re not on our _shit list_ , per se, but interesting turn of phrase. More we’ve kept an eye on you.”

                Scoffing more out of disbelief than anything, you sighed. “How long has this been going on?”

                “Five years, give or take. Since the Ostwick incident.”

                “Yeah…,” you winced at the memory. “I apologize about the dreadnought, by the way. I didn’t intend to hitch a ride on the wrong ship, much less get caught. You Qunari can do a number when you’re pissed.”

                A heavy hand landed on your shoulder, “You kidding? That escape was _inspired_. Read all about it. You’ve got to tell me how you managed to make the explosion that big.”

                “You really want to know?” A quizzical nod. “Never fight a Saarebas in a cargo hold carrying blackpowder. It won’t end well.”

                His eyebrows shot up to where his shaved hairline was, “You’re shitting me! It was an _accident_?”

                A proud grin broke out on your own face before you could stop it. In hindsight, it _had_ been a pretty remarkable explosion. “Well, it was calculated, but yes. It was an accident at its core. I figured there was _something_ in the barrels that would be distracting. I didn’t count on _how_ distracting, so I let the Saarebas target me with a nice fireball, but ducked last minute. _BAM!_ Exploded hull. Escape route. And there was also a sunken Tevinter slave carrier to boot.” The slavers’ ship had been your original target. Slavers made your stomach crawl in a manner most unpleasant. That about twenty of them were corpses at the bottom of the Waking Sea was no skin off your back, and the fact that they were Tevinter didn’t seem to take any of Iron Bull’s, either.

                “Had to hurt, though.”

                You winced, “Yeah. Burns on half my body, most severe, but I was alive. Which is more than could be said about the Saarebas, sad to say. I apologize for that, I didn’t mean to cause any harm. Not sorry about those slavers, though.” Not that your healing magic had _hurt_ the being alive part, anyway. And you did regret the death of that Saarebas. It had been entirely unnecessary had you not screwed up and snuck onto the wrong ship. It had been dark, you were blind, and the ledger had had a mix-up with docking assignments, but still. It was the point.

                Iron Bull shook his head as he pushed off the wall, “Nah, you’re fine. Higher-ups looked into it and most were actually impressed that you’d managed to sneak onto a dreadnought and remain undetected for a whole day. They deemed it an accident and moved on, but not before stewing about it for a couple of years. You know us.”

                “Sadly,” you said teasingly. “Anything else you wanted to ask me about, or did you just come here to rub Ostwick in my poor, poor face?”

                “I was just curious. Heard a lot about you even back in Seheron. Wanted to see if you lived up to the legend.”

                You raised an eyebrow. “And?”

                Iron Bull gave you a splitting grin, “You’re a little…smaller than I had expected.”

                Your face deadpanned, and the Qunari laughed at your pointed silence as he started to walk off. You weren’t _that_ short…

                “You got a name, _Imesaam_?” You shot him a look he couldn’t see at the foreign word, but replied slowly.

                “Lys. Got anything shorter than _The Iron Bull_ , or should I just call you Ben-Hassrath? And what’s… _Imay Same_ mean?” You winced. Gods, you had just butchered the pronunciation, you just knew it by the snort. It had taken you months to even _begin_ pronouncing Dalish correctly, never mind the fact that you’d never really even heard Qunlat before. Languages hated you.

                The Qunari’s chuckle was hearty, but you didn’t miss how he avoided your last question. “Well then, Lys. You can just call me Bull.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I took some liberties with the Qunlat word, Imesaam. I derived it from Imekari-saam, which literally translates into something akin to "child nothing", or more roughly, "Child of Nothing". I figured it was an appropriate nickname for a sneak. It didn't seem too far off considering Bull nicknamed Gatt from his personal quest after Gaatlok. So I put some creative shortening onto it.


	13. Chapter 12

 

“ _It’s not what it seems._  
Not what you think.  
No, I must be dreaming.” 

-Evanescence, “ _Bleed (I Must Be Dreaming)_ ”

* * *

 

**_~???~_ **

* * *

**_A sneeze caught you off guard_ ** _. Frozen where you were crouched in the hallway, you listened intently for any indication that you had been heard. The sounds of the party in the other room carried on almost boisterously, laughter and merriment broken only by the bard’s flute. You allowed a minute to look back at the closed wooden door behind you wistfully. It was too late. You couldn’t back out now._

_The Khajiiti cook was missing from her post. Something about that nagged at you, as well as Malborn’s absence, but you pushed that aside. It didn’t matter. The fact that the cook was gone was good, and Malborn had pointed you in the right direction before returning to his own post serving drinks. If the Bosmer was gone too long, it would elicit suspicion that neither of you needed._

_You still crept across the flagstones a bit quieter, though._

_The embers at the bottom of the stone oven crackled ominously, wood in the cooking fire giving convincing mimicry only seconds later. Your eyes were locked on a door across the open room, but it was not to be an easy task getting there. Tables laden with vegetables easily knocked over and cuts of meat blocked your path, and hanging racks of garlic braids and elves ear threatened to be knocked together like chimes. Just about everything in the room, including yourself had the chance of giving you away. Vigilance was the only way you could possibly make it through your mission successfully and undetected. The weight of it all caused sweat to drip down the back of your neck and tickle your spine._

_Jarl Idgrod had asked you to take the mission as a personal favor, though, and you didn’t want to let her down. It didn’t matter that you spent the past three months wanting to punch Delphine in the face, it didn’t matter that having to act as a Thalmor sympathizer in order to sneak into the embassy made your stomach turn. You owed Idgrod much, and you’d be damned if you didn’t pay._

_It took you around five minutes to dart shadow-to-shadow the meager eleven feet to your target, but it was still nerve wracking enough that you were shaking by the time you yanked the door to the larder open. Eager did not even begin to describe how you felt about grabbing your gear Malborn had stashed and getting the mission over with. Your anxiety over the situation meant that it took you a few minutes for the sight laid out in front of you to register. It wasn’t until you stepped into a puddle of something red that you had the sense to look down._

_And you screamed._

_Bodies. Red scales shone even redder in the dim candlelight from the sconces on the wall. It took only a closer look at the broken tusks to determine that it was Lurks-In-Shadows, face down with one of your own glass daggers in his back. Its twin was on the ground covered by a limp, scaly hand. Leaning up against the wall was Vienelé’s decapitated body, her own head lying in her lap with glossy eyes that were bleeding red tears. Next to the vampire sat a little Dunmeri girl with tell-tale hand prints around her neck. It was bent at an awkward angle, obviously broken. That sight alone made your knees give out and bile rise at the back of your throat._

_Turning your head did not clear your gaze, as you then saw a very familiar Altmer sprawled next to the chest that should have held your armor and bow. Undilar’s eyes were thankfully closed and no obvious wounds leaped out at you, but his golden skin was just too pale against his cerulean robes. Black hair and a wrinkled hand you just knew belonged to Idgrod peaked from around the chest. You bowed your head. Apple colored eyes were wide and tears trickled from the sides unbidden. This wasn’t how it was supposed to have gone. This wasn’t how the memory played out._

_But as soon as your gaze went down, you scrambled frantically backwards. The scream caught in your throat and sounded more like a choked breath than anything else. Dand and Alan had lain on either side of you. The Rivaini’s precious armor was scuffed and dented and cracked, his throat slit where the metal left it vulnerable. Alan’s left hand was missing, the stump remaining mangled and torn. Blood loss was evident, and you suspected most of the red ichor you were sitting in was Dand and the Herald’s._

_Wait,_ there! _The vein in Alan’s neck jumped, though it was barely visible where the cloth wound around his throat had fallen away. Focusing your ears, you noticed a heartbeat, albeit faint and distant. You could save him._ You could save him!

_Fumbling to reach down, you grabbed the Trevelyan’s left arm. Restoration magic sparked at your fingertips, but before the spell could do much on closing the skin and encouraging production of lost blood, Alan’s right hand shot up from the opposite side of his body and closed around your own wrist in a vice. You were startled out of your concentration, and the spell fizzled out. Burnt sugar mixed with the metallic stench surrounding you._

_Eyes shot to meet with the human’s, which had pried open at some point. They had a haze to them, full of pain but also brimming with accusation. Blame._

_“You did this,” he rasped. A cough was next, spewing blood into the air to dribble down his chin. You barely missed the spray and flinched. “You didn’t stop it.”_

_You whimpered, “Stop what?!”_

_“Your fault, Lys,” Alan hissed. His grip tightened even more – you swore you felt a bone crack. “Your fault they’re dead and we’re next. You_ couldn’t _stop it then and you_ won’t _stop it now.”_

 _Whipping your head up, you wound your gaze around the tiny room again. Everyone’s eyes were open. Everyone was looking at you. Lurks-In-Shadows had craned his bloodied neck so he wasn’t face down on the stone anymore, and Jarl Idgrod had peered out from behind the chest to stare you soullessly in the face. The Dunmer girl was holding Vienelé’s head now, both her and the vampire giving you blank looks. Undilar’s was the worst of all, though, because his gaze was clear. And in it was hate – unadulterated_ hate _. You hadn’t seen him in years, but that…that hurt more than anything._

_Just as you were going to look at Dand, another hand yanked roughly at your shoulder. The Rivaini in question had pulled you down to his level, Alan never releasing his hold on your arm and causing you to be bent over uncomfortably._

_His lips were at your ear. “Be wary the mage.” Startled, you drew back with no small amount of effort. His voice didn’t sound like Dand’s. Though dull, it held an otherworldly resonance. It was a resonance you recognized._

_“No, no, no, no,” you murmured, more frightened than you were willing to admit as you wrenched yourself free from Dand and Alan’s grip.  This was supposed to have just been a nightmare. “No, no, no. Not again. Get out of my head!” You pushed yourself to your feet and stumbled to the center of the room. Before you could get too much farther, another icy hand snatched up your ankle. You shrieked._

_Looking down, you saw Lurks-In-Shadows staring up at you unblinkingly. Only, it wasn’t Lurks-In-Shadows. Something in your mind had clicked, and you knew far too well how this worked. “Be wary the mage.” It wasn’t the Argonian’s voice, not really. There wasn’t a voice at all that echoed around you, trying to choke you with its tone. It was more of a suggestion that compelled you to listen, an imprint on your mind. This imprint was one that no matter how many times you were determined not to listen, in the end you always did._

_You could feel_ It _slithering around in your mind, embossing itself or whatever it was that_ It _did._

 _“What mage?” You finally decided to bite._ It _wouldn’t have been speaking if there wasn’t something important to be told. But still, you thought you were done being_ It’s _chess piece. “Be wary of whom?”_

 _A hand was on your shoulder and whirled you around. Undilar’s orange eyes met you, their clarity making you try to push him away to no avail. The old Altmer held fast, lips pursed into an uncharacteristic thin line. “_ The mage _.”_ It _spoke through the priest as if the answer was obvious._

_“That’s not much to go on!”_

_Undilar vanished in the time it took you to blink. Another and the room was void of blood and corpses, the wall sconce flickering out to plunge the larder into darkness. The floor beneath your feet suddenly faded away, and you were left floating. The abyss was familiar, but you couldn’t place from where._

_“_ BE WARY THE MAGE _.” There was a brilliant flash of simultaneous emerald and aquamarine. Symbols blinked and disappeared just as quickly as they had come, foreign figures you didn’t – and maybe even_ couldn’t _– recognize._

 _“_ BE WARY THE MAGE. _”_ It _spoke once more, deafeningly loud._

 _“_ BE WARY THE MAGE _.”_

_The last repetition of the message flashed in Nirnish characters instead of echoing in the void, and that was the last you knew as the abyss swallowed you whole…_

***

**_~Thedas – 9:41 Dragon~_ **

***

 ** _SCUFF!_** The quiet sound jolted you from your nightmare quite suddenly. You tensed briefly before relaxing when a muttered curse sounded from a very familiar voice.

                “Tethras, what are you doing?” You remained perfectly still as you asked the question. There was a bit of humor, but you were mostly annoyed.

                “Uh,” the dwarf floundered, “Green wants you for something?” Turning your head from where it sat on the pillow, you allowed the mask to scrutinize him for a moment. In that moment, Varric shuffled awkwardly thrice, picked at a fraying thread on one of his jacket sleeves, and coughed four times. His discomfort was like sweet music to your ears.

                “Liar.”

                He grinned that insufferable grin. “Why, Prowler, I’m insulted! I would never lie to you! Green really does want to talk to you about something.”

                Sitting up from where you’d fallen asleep sprawled across your bed, you replied, “You could have knocked just as easily. Weren’t you ever told it’s rude to sneak into a lady’s room?”

                “Once or twice,” he shrugged, still grinning.

                “So you’re just a horrible listener? I’m sure Momma-Tethras is very proud,” you deadpanned. Hearing him flinch denoted the taunt as a low blow, but you really didn’t care. Varric deserved a good dressing-down, and if touchy subjects were the only way to do it, then so be it. You’d do it – anything to make the jokes stop.

                His voice was strained. “Her ashes are probably rolling over in her grave, more likely.” You raised an eyebrow. Low blow, indeed.

                “Hmm.”

                A tense moment ticked by where you made no move to get up, and Varric made no move to leave. He scuffed the toe of his boot on the wooden floor. “So, uh…do you really sleep in that mask?” Did you…? Your face fell into a scowl of epic proportions.

                “Do I _sleep_ in the _mask_?” you growled. “Really? You snuck in here to see if you could catch me without it, didn’t you?”

                Varric snorted. “Maybe?” You froze.

                Grabbing the first heavy object within your reach (which just so happened to be a spare boot), you chucked it at the dwarf for all you were worth. “ _Get out!_ ” The blond snickered as he ducked. The sound of feet scurrying across dusty wood sounded, and you leaped to your thankfully sock-covered feet to follow him and make _extra_ sure that he really left. Your other boot was poised in your hand as you strode along, just in case.

                “Y’know – ,” Varric began, but he cut himself off when you lifted the shoe a little higher.

                “ _OUT!_ ” you bellowed. Varric seemed to hesitate only for a moment. When he heaved a sigh and stepped back out into the insufferable cold, you felt a little relieved.

                “ _Green’s in the chantry and your mask is creepy!_ ”

                Your eyes were fire at the slurred, hurried phrase, and you couldn’t contain yourself any longer when you threw the boot in Varric’s direction, growling venomously. A testament to the years of training as a rogue, his reflexes were outstanding. The wooden door was shut a fraction of a second before the mass of soft leather hit the planks. The thud was still satisfying, you insisted to yourself. It was just missing the scream of pain.

                _Damn dwarf_ , you grumbled as you turned back towards your bed and ripped your mask off. Hoping you were imagining the dull ache, you rubbed viciously under your nose. A wet, red stain came away, and you stared unseeingly down at it. Your face was pinched. You never got nosebleeds…except for… You quickly wiped all evidence of the blood from your glove, eyes hard.

                It hadn’t been a dream at all.

***

 **As always, the chantry was annoyingly pious.** The Chanter standing outside the doors dutifully recited some line from the Chant of Light when you passed. Her look was probably meaningful…or spiteful, you didn’t know. Either was entirely possible. The Mothers hadn’t taken kindly to the fact that you refused to convert. Apparently, the Divines you frequently cursed to were considered _heretical._

                Candles and incense made the tiny cathedral stink of myrrh and copal. Villagers offered prayers in a few of the apses, their mutters sounding much louder than they really were thanks to the acoustics of the vaulted ceilings. A couple of young priestesses wandered around, heads bowed in perpetual contemplation. All and all, it reminded you of the Temple back in Kvatch. Perhaps it was an after-effect of the nightmare, but you easily were able to picture Undilar’s cerulean robes standing before one of the altars set up in an apse, tending to it. Instead of Andraste, the magnificent carvings and statues depicted Auri-El and Phynaster. The guards halfway down the room were ceremonially barring entrance to the imaginary Wayshrine, not keeping unwanted ears away from the war room.

                Shaking yourself out of it, you headed towards a door and silently slipped inside. Sticking to the shadows was second nature. Avoiding a stray puddle in the stone was child’s play. Stealth was your mistress, and you knew her well.

                So it didn’t take you long or much effort before you found yourself standing in the shadows behind Alan. As you had predicted, the warrior was straight-backed about three feet from the door into the holding cells, fixated on the center of the rotunda. The cells were empty and dark and dank, the epicenter illuminated instead by an exotic combination of torchlight and filtered sunlight through the grate on the ceiling. A set of shackles were what really caught Alan’s attention, though. They sat askew the sunburst eye etched into the stone.

                “I still don’t remember what happened. Y’know, in the Fade and at the Conclave. There was that vision at the Temple, but I can’t actually remember it,” said Alan suddenly. You admitted to jumping a little, not having expected the man to notice you so easily. You hadn’t made any noise walking in.

                Still, you recovered quickly and shrugged. “Maybe you will, maybe you won’t, but I don’t think staring at those shackles is going to get you any answers.”

                “Never know,” he turned to you and grinned broadly. “They _could_ be magic shackles.”

                “I’m being serious, Trevelyan. You’ve spent the last three days since you’ve been back from the Coast staring at the damned things.”

                The forced jovial smile faltered, but only for a moment before Alan managed to plaster it on full-strength again. “I’ve eaten. I think that counts as a break.”

                You let your mask do the talking. “ _Trevelyan._ ”

                He sighed heavily. “Alright, alright. You’ve got that _mum_ tone down pat, you know. It’s a little terrifying.” Snorting, you stepped up beside him and leaned against a pillar.

                “Hardly, but I think it’s only going to get some practice the more I have to deal with you.” You nodded at him. “What’s going on? Tethras said you wanted to talk to me.”

                “Yeah, I uhm…” Alan crossed his arms and kicked at a stray pebble. “Well, Cassandra and the others have been at each others’ throats about if we should go to the Templars or the mages. It looks like I’m going to have to be the tie breaker.”

                You pursed your lips. “So?”

                “ _So_?” he asked, obviously bewildered. “I’m going to have to make that decision! I don’t…I don’t know who to choose.”

                “And you think I’m a good one to ask? Alan, I’m the most neutral person out of everyone in this gods forsaken village!”

                “Exactly!” he exclaimed, almost leaping forward with excitement. “You don’t have a stake in the mage-Templar thing! You’re unbiased!”

                You floundered for a moment before finally settling on gesticulating wildly. “Flip a coin, pick from a hat? _Auri-El’s_ _wings_ , eenie-meenie-minie-moe it, the fuck do I care?!”

                Alan gave you a pleading look, “You’ve got to have an opinion!”

                Sighing, you fiddled with the chin of your mask. The shiny finish caused your gloves to slip along the surface. “I don’t know. On one hand, the mages can give the mark enough strength to maybe close the Breach. On the other, the Templars could weaken the Breach itself.”

                “Politically,” he whispered, “which do you think is best?”

                “ _Politically_ , I think Josephine would be better equipped to answer that.”

                “You’re the – ”

                “Shadow Broker?” You raised an eyebrow. “Just because I sell information on political affairs doesn’t mean I have to or do understand them.”

                Alan groaned, “Please, Lys, give me _something_?! I need an opinion.”

                Scoffing, you pushed off the pillar to stand directly in front of the warrior. You were sure you shocked him when you reached up to poke him in the chest. “No, you don’t _need_ an opinion; you _want_ someone else to make this decision _for_ you. Did you maybe think of sitting down with Josephine, Cullen, Leliana, and Cassandra and getting their opinions on _why_ they want to go for the mages or Templars? Their reasoning behind it?”

                His brief silence was almost unnerving. “Well, Josephine thinks the mages are a better bet since Fiona approached us in Val Royeaux. Formal invitation and all that…”

                Thinking about it for a moment, you had to wince. You hadn’t liked the robed elf; it was something in her tone. She had carried herself much too confidently for a woman leading what was effectively a group of fugitive mages in the middle of a war.

                _Be wary the mage._ Freezing at the memory of your dream and the words contained in it, you backpedaled. Be wary the mage…be wary the Grand Enchanter? Be wary the rebellion?

                With the dread settling over you, you hadn’t recognized that Alan had still been speaking when you interrupted him. “Templars.”

                “What?” asked the Herald incredulously.

                “Templars,” you said again, more forcefully this time. “Approach the Templars.”

                He motioned awkwardly. “I thought you didn’t have an opinion. Why the sudden change of heart?” You blanched. He couldn’t know about _It_ – Alan wouldn’t believe you anyway, no one in their right minds would. You’d be an unwilling test subject in an hour if you showed your face.

                You growled, “Bad feeling? Damn it, what does it matter? I gave you an answer.”

                “Yeah, an answer you were _vehemently refusing to give not two minutes ago_ ,” was the exasperated response. You rolled your eyes and shoved the man aside, moving to stomp your way out of the dungeon. Alan had other plans, and instead grabbed your wrist and tried pulling you back. You tried to dig your heels into the flagstone, but your arm still wouldn’t budge.

                “Let go of me.”

                Alan shook his head. “Not until you tell me what’s going on. Something’s bothering you.”

                A barking, un-amused laugh tore from your throat. “Yeah, something is bothering me. It’s a tall human with a strange mark on his hand whose name is Alan, and he _won’t let me go_.” He was quiet for a minute, probably staring you down if the weighty feeling on your face counted for anything.

                “You’ve been acting strangely since the minute you walked through that door.”

                You huffed. “I have _not_. How would you know if I’m acting _right_ or not, anyway?”

                “I could hear you walking at the other end of the hallway,” he said quickly, the tone dry. “I’ve fought with you enough to recognize that’s not normal.” He’d – ?! Suddenly, you flushed an angry orange. You hadn’t even realized you’d made any type of sound. _Sloppy, sloppy, sloppy_.

                Alan’s grip had slackened, and you finally wrenched your arm free once the opportunity presented itself. “Stop analyzing me.”

                “I’m not analyzing you. I’m concerned.”

                Though you had started to walk out of the room, you paused at his words and gave a rude gesture over your shoulder. “Well, take your concern and shove it up your ass. I’m fine.”

                The sound of angry, heavy footfalls following you sounded immediately after. You didn’t even have to look back to know that Alan wasn’t going to let anything go without a fight. He was too short-fused, too stubborn. “Hey! That was uncalled for!”

                “So was your question.” You winced as soon as the words were out of your mouth, but didn’t let your gait falter. That was about the stupidest comeback you could have thought of. You listened to the echo of your footsteps – halfway to the stairs…

                The Herald, however, did pause momentarily. “What the – ? _How_?”

                At the landing, you suddenly turned around and marched the five feet separating you from Alan. You pulled a scroll containing a report you’d requested from Dand out of one of the pouches on your belt and shoved it into his chest. Maybe it would shut him up.

                “ _Here_ ,” you hissed. “Consider this my opinion. Now make your own decisions for once.” The scroll tumbled to the ground as you pulled your hands away without waiting for the warrior to take the rolled parchment. Allowing the scowl of your mask to leer at him for perhaps a moment longer than necessary, you turned crisply on your heel and began climbing the steps.

                “Lys, wait!” You ignored him and the stares the shout had garnered as you slipped out of the chantry and back to your cabin.

***

 **You had at first tried to busy yourself with cleaning.** Once all of the dust had been cleared off of every conceivable surface of your cabin, you tried mending a tear in an old shirt you’d never quite gotten around to fixing. It had taken you a grand total of five seconds to remember that you were horrible at sewing anything but flesh, and only two pricked fingers later found the fabric torn worse than it had originally been and discarded in a corner. Alchemy had been your next futile attempt at distracting yourself, but the lack of a proper alembic made the task difficult on a good day, disastrous when your mind was only half-there.

                Eventually, you took up one of your many spare scraps of parchment and began attempting to scribble down the symbols you’d seen in your “dream”. “BE WARY THE MAGE” was translated several times over in Daedric characters, common Nirnish, Ehlnofex, Altmeri, even Bretonic and rudimentary Argonian – the list went on. When no patterns had jumped out at you, the letters you hadn’t been able to decipher were next.

                You prided yourself in having a good memory – it came with the job – but not knowing what the symbols meant was hindering you. Growling as you scratched out another heavy-handed character resembling a triangle twisted in on itself, you re-read what you had already written. Lines criss-crossed the page in what came off as chaotic, connecting words and phrases with little comments written alongside them. The foreign letters down at the bottom were shaky at best, horrifically malformed at worst, and thick layers of ink bled through the paper where you had angrily slashed out mistakes. It honestly looked like someone had murdered your inkwell. Violently.

                “Damn it!” you groaned finally when your fingers made another pass over the stupid phrase that kept tumbling itself through your head like a mantra. “ _Be wary the mage”_. What mage? Perhaps _It_ had meant the rebellion? No, you shook your head, it was “be wary the _mage_ ”, not “ _mages_ ”. Singular, not plural – and it could have meant anyone. Fiona, Vivienne, Solas, even yourself – _anyone_ was fair game to your paranoia.

                You had too many variables and not enough explanations as to what they were to figure out the missing piece. And you wanted to tear your hair out. You very badly wanted to tear your hair out. Hair-tearing-out was not conductive to the proper logical deduction and reasoning required for…

                …fuck it…

                Infuriated, you reached under your hood, grabbed a fistful of chin-length blond hair, and _pulled_. It wasn’t hard enough to actually rip the strands from your scalp, but it was jarring enough to alleviate your irritation. Your fingers then began massaging the ache away before twirling a few strands between them out of habit. It was probably a _bad_ habit, you realized, but it helped clear your mind enough for you to look at the problem in front of you again with a semi-clear head.

                A comment you had written then suddenly decided to stand out. _Nightmare used as conduit._ You narrowed your eyes. The dream itself had been a conjuration of your own mind – the memory of the job at the Thalmor Embassy so many years ago hadn’t been false. The lack of Malborn escorting you to the larder where he had stashed your smuggled things had been wrong, as had the absence of the cook. Your own insecurities had reflected in seeing the people that you had dead. The “speaking”, though – that hadn’t been you at all.

                It wasn’t the first time. The same thing had happened thrice back on Nirn – _It_ using your own dreams as a medium in which to contact you. _It_ didn’t do it often – only when there was something earth-shatteringly important to say. And even then, the messages were vague, at best.

                You leaned back in your chair, feeling like the information had somehow managed to wrangle you into a corner. There was so little to go on. Instinct and logic could only get you so far, and that wasn’t very. It was akin to fumbling around in the dark with only a spark to see by.

                The footsteps crunching the fresh snow outside was able to be heard before the loud knock. Steeling yourself to open the door, you were unsurprised to find Alan looming in front of you. What did shock you, however, was the forwardness he displayed by snatching up your wrist and dragging you off without giving you a chance to even say hello.

                “Trevelyan, what the – ?!”

                “Do you have all your weapons?” he interrupted. There was solidity in his tone that caused your jaw to snap shut. Subtly touching your fingertips to his gauntlet, the hazy outline of his face presented to you then gave an unsettling stony look. He was a man on a mission.

                So you grudgingly admitted, “I’m never without them.” He nodded briskly, stopping in front of Solas’ cabin and issuing three swift raps of his meal-covered knuckles on the door. It was then you realized the Herald was in full armor.

                “Good,” he said. “Pack a bag. We’re going to the Hinterlands.”

                The elf chose that moment to swing his cabin door open, obviously having heard the preceding conversation if his question was anything to go by. “Why the Hinterlands, if I may ask?”

                “Did something happen at the Crossroads?” you ventured tentatively. “Because I swear that we got all the bandits with that last sweep through Fort Connor. Any stragglers shouldn’t have been more than Corporal Vale and his men there could – ”

                Alan breathed an annoyed sigh through his nose. “It’s not the Crossroads.” Whereas you were baffled, Solas seemed to understand what the Trevelyan was getting at.

                “You intend to take the Grand Enchanter up on her offer.”

                You started, wrenching your wrist free and “staring” wide-eyed in Alan’s direction. You screeched when he made no move to counter Solas’ claim. “ _WHAT_?! Did you even _read_ those reports I gave you?”

                “I did,” the warrior confirmed. “So did Cassandra, Leliana, and Cullen. They agreed that not only is Redcliffe closer than Therinfal, it’s in the most immediate danger if your information is accurate.” You wanted to punch something. Or someone. _Damn it_ , you’d hoped Alan to have had more sense than this.

                You snarled, “I gave those reports to _you_ – not Leliana, not Cassandra, not Cullen. Going to the mages would be _suicide_!” Wholeheartedly engaged in your little spat with Alan, you failed to notice Solas watching the conversation with the eyes of a hawk, settling against his doorway to observe.

                Alan yanked a crumpled sheet of white out of a belt pouch and waved it around like a madman. “This said only that there were sightings of Tevinters in the city, not that the rebels were associating with them _at all_. If we come in and drive them out…”

                “ _B’vek, ohn – !_ ” you growled under your breath, cutting yourself off with an exaggerated throw of your hands into the air. “You really think that waltzing in and killing a few Tevinters is going to make the rebels up and trust us? _Tel’eth_ – this is a horrible idea!”

                “It’s the only solid plan we’ve got!”

                “ _Bahris!_ The Templars would be a safer option!”

                Alan scoffed loudly, “After what the Lord Seeker did in Val Royeaux? _That’s_ suicide! Besides, if there is a Tevinter presence in Redcliffe, those mages present more of a threat than the Templars should they decide to attack!”

                You gestured to Solas, who was still watching your argument with a, dare you say, amused look on his face. “If, by chance, you don’t get us _killed_ and you do manage to convince the rebels to ally with us, those ‘ _not so threatening_ ’ Templars are going to be able to cripple our offensive, defensive, _and_ support systems if they get pissed enough! At least with the Templars, the only thing that can be knocked to Oblivion and back is our offense. We can still defend and retreat if need be.”

                “Why would the Templars attack us?” Alan asked. You gaped at him for several moments when you realized that he was actually confused.

                “Why would the - ?!” you barked a humorless laugh. “I don’t know! It could happen – _anything_ could happen.”

                “Just because it _could_ happen doesn’t mean it _will_ ,” the Herald pressed, voice firm, and you knew then that any chance you had of winning the argument had withered and died. “We’re going to the mages, end of discussion. Now, are you coming or not, Lys?”

                You grit your teeth. “ _Yes_. I am. Only because I want to be able to say ‘ _I told you so_ ’.”

                Alan nodded with finality. “Good. We’re leaving in a half hour. I want both of you to meet me by the gates then.” Where you remained silent, Solas broke his own muteness with acquiescence.

                “As you wish.” Something in his voice still sounded amused, and in hindsight, the childish grumbling you slipped into after Alan walked away probably only served to fuel it.

                “ _How dare he!?_ ” Obviously seething, you stuffed your gloved hands into the crook of your chilled elbows. “I gave that information to him in confidence!”

                Solas pushed off of the doorframe. “I was not aware you spoke a language other than elven.” His abrupt dismissal of the subject both jarred you from your anger as well as fueled it. Realizing that some slurred mix of Dunmeris and Aldmeris had escaped you, you stiffly shrugged the question off.

                “Picked it up on the road. I don’t even remember what it’s called – doubt I got any of it correct, anyway.” You began taking small steps backward to your cabin, giving Solas a small wave. “I need to pack. See you at the gates!” The elf wasn’t given time to respond in kind before you had shuffled into your humble abode and slammed the door behind you.

                Once inside, you leaned against the wood, head back and eyes closed. _Gods_ , you thought. _Its_ stupid warning about the mage was ringing in your head like a vice. Desperately, you hoped Alan knew what he was doing. You had a terrible feeling that the costs if he didn’t would be more than anyone was willing to pay.

***

 **Alan, you decided, was really a cruel mastermind in disguise.** The five-day journey from Haven to Redcliffe village was anything _but_ leisurely. Camp never lasted past sunrise, what the Trevelyan deemed as the “necessary” amount of time, and it was never set until long after sundown. You didn’t know whether it was spite for your disapproval or an angered urgency to reach the mages, but the Herald seemed to have felt the innate need to push you, Solas, and Sera almost to your limits.

                The addition of the female elf was also a slimy move. She was constantly complaining about the hurried pace to anyone who would listen, and she appeared to consider the air a listening entity when no one wished to put up with her shenanigans. You took absolutely no pleasure in catching Alan’s satisfied smirk whenever the archer took to annoying the snot out of you and your mage companion. In all honesty, it was beginning to appear as if the blighted little shit had made a deal with Sera about tagging along only if she made your life miserable.

                Respite came only in the form of clear roads. After having swept out the nearby bandits those weeks before, the trek would have actually been pleasant had you been allowed the time to enjoy it. Only one Fade Rift had jumped out at you all, and the wisps following had been easy enough to take care of. Your nerves were screaming at you that the calm was unusual, things were going too smoothly. Bluntly, you were terrified of what could possibly lay beyond Redcliffe’s gates, not that you divulged your fears to anyone in your group. Alan had already made it clear that he would have nothing of it, you had your doubts about Sera’s motives to wishing to “tag along”, and Solas seemed to have enough on his mind. The mage spent just about every waking moment with one of the most scrutinizing looks on his face that you had ever seen. Bothering him just seemed like a bad idea.

                “Carts upturned ahead. Dunno if that’s bad or whatever,” Sera chirped offhandedly as she darted her way towards the group. You and the other rogue had been taking turns scouting, and her turn had given you a bit of a respite from all the running.

                “Why?” Alan frowned almost instantly. “What happened to them?”

                The elf shrugged, “Bugger if I know. Nothin’ was there, really, ‘cept the carts. It looked like some fancy-pants merchant or someone just left ‘em there and took off. Bit strange, though, with how quiet everything’s been, yeah?”

                You shook your head slowly, “Why would a merchant just up and leave their carts? And why would they be turned over? Alan, something’s wrong here.” Your voice pleaded with the warrior to listen. He grumbled under his breath, probably rolling his eyes at you if the muttered “Maker-damned mother hen” was evidence of anything.

                “She’s right.” When Solas’ tenor agreed with you, you swore you could’ve sung out praises. “We’re only a few minutes from the village – ”

                “I want a constant watch on that damn thing!” cried a voice from ahead of you, though it was heading closer. “Sound the alarm at the first sign of demons!”

                Huh. Demons. Well, that explained everything.

                “And there’s our answer,” you drawled, whipping your daggers from their sheaths at your hips. No sooner did the words leave your mouth and the frazzled woman who had spoken – a guard, you realized – passed than did the mark on Alan’s hand start its tell-tale fizzling. The warrior groaned in agitation, but drew his sword and shield and advanced anyway.

                You could sympathize – none of you were thrilled to fight more demons.

                But while you weren’t looking forward to fending off the malevolent creatures of the Fade, you doubly so weren’t expecting to have found what you did. The usual feeling of a Rift swamped over you, the Aetherial magic that leaked through the small tear inconsequential compared to what the Breach itself had done. However, under that was something you’d felt twice, maybe three times in your life, and it made you pause in running a shade clean through. It suddenly felt like you were trying to run through molasses. Almost like…

                “Watch it!” Solas bellowed from above the sounds of battle, flinging frost out of his staff to and fro. “It appears the Rift can manipulate time!”

                …like the _Tiid-Ahraan…_

                “Bloody pissing _sod it!_ Why isn’t any of this shite normal!?” bemoaned Sera.

                Alan barely rolled out of the way of a materializing terror demon. “It’s _what_? _How?!_ ” Solas casted a barrier spell over you just in time to block a wraith’s spell from slapping you with a stamina drain. You shot him a thankful nod, but you were almost certain he didn’t see it.

                “I’m afraid I do not know!” the mage replied. It was all _very_ reassuring, but, you had to admit, you hadn’t a clue, either. Thedosian magics were still a tad beyond your comprehension. How the one Rift in front of Redcliffe’s gates had managed to somehow interfere with time, well, your guess was as good as any…probably worse, actually.

                The battle proceeded rather swiftly after that once Sera had managed to feel out a spot where time was quickened. It had made her shooting that much faster and that much more effective. Arrows had felled more beasts than did blade or staff, you were chagrinned to admit. When the guardswoman finally crawled her way back from whatever hole she’d squared herself away in, her simpering thanks were more towards Sera than the rest of you. Alan had bristled a little at that, displeased that his meager endeavor of ripping the Rift closed had gone pretty much unnoticed in lieu of the demon corpses littered with arrows.

                “Maker have mercy! It’s over. Open the gates!” Gears grinding on gears sounded as the creaky metal grate slowly began to rise. Almost immediately upon clearing the threshold, there were murmurs, both of awe and of discontent. People whispered amongst themselves and eyed Solas’ staff with either unease or curiosity, and Alan was regarded with no small degree of wonderment.

                An Inquisition scout bounded up to you within moments, giving Alan the customary bow. Without wasting time on pleasantries (you liked the man already), he spoke. “We spread word the Inquisition was coming, but you should know that no one here was expecting us.”

                _Be wary the mage_. “No one? Not even Grand Enchanter Fiona?” You tried to keep the fear out of your voice, but it still wavered with the effort.

                “If she was,” shrugged the scout in response, “she hasn’t told anyone. We’ve arranged use of the tavern for the negotiations.” _Be wary the mage!_

                An elf, young and nervous by the sound of him, suddenly decided to run up. “Agents of the Inquisition, my apologies! Magister Alexius is in charge now, but hasn’t yet arrived. He’s expected shortly. You may speak with the former Grand Enchanter in the meantime.” Your eyes flashed the angriest you were sure they’d ever been as the boy nonchalantly walked away.

                “ _Magister_ Alexius?!” you growled, yanking back on Alan’s elbow to stop him from following after the elven boy. “And he’s in charge? Can I say ‘ _I told you so_ ’ now?”

                Solas and Sera wisely stepped back from the conversation the minute you’d reached for the Herald. Alan sighed after a pause, and he reached up to pinch his nose as if it would make all of his problems go away. What you could see of his green eyes seemed burdened.

                “Lys, please, just…,” he lifted his eyes to the slanted, blacked out horizontal slits your mask claimed as eyes. “Just don’t.” He was guilty enough, you realized. The minute the elf boy had said that a Magister was in charge, it had dawned on him just how sticky the situation with the mages was. You relaxed your grip. After all, he hadn’t known about _Its_ warning.

                “I sure hope you know what you’re doing,” you pleaded.

                Alan just scoffed as he turned back around. “Yeah. You and me both.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, there we have it. I owe you some translations, so let's get to it.
> 
> ALDMERIS/DUNMERIS (most of the Dunmeri words I used are pure Aldmeri used in Dunmer speech. I couldn't find a pure Aldmeri dictionary, so I went with what I could):
> 
> B'vek: An exclamation of surprise - an Aldmeris word.  
> Ohn: You - a Dunmeris word.  
> Bahris: Literally "nothing", but I took it more to mean "no" as I couldn't find a Dunmeris or Aldmeris word for "no".
> 
> THEDOSIAN ELVISH:
> 
> Tel'eth: Literally along the lines of "not safe", however with how ambiguous Elvish can tend to be, I meant it to be more akin to "this (idea) is not safe".
> 
> Hope the nightmare sequence wasn't...too much. As for "Be wary the mage", I meant it to be able to mean several different things, of which will be revealed...eventually. And on another note, Alan and Lys are butting heads. I feel like with how I've decided to depict the Herald to be, Lys wouldn't get along with him too well. Alan's young, brash, and idealistic, whereas Lys is weathered. She's experienced her world being destroyed and is actually kind of a pessimist. She sees Alan as being immature, and I think that his stubbornness would only clash with Lys' own. Just my take, though. Please tell me if you think something could have been done differently/added/taken away. I love feedback!


	14. Chapter 13

“ _I know you needed to dream_  
they wouldn’t restrain you.  
Pushed so hard through the crowd,  
but you never made a sound.  
And I always took your side.  
(Even when you left me behind)  
They got the best of us this year.”

 

-One Less Reason, “ _Pieces of You_ ”

* * *

 

**_~Thedas – 9:41 Dragon~_ **

* * *

**“The tavern’s called ‘ _The Gull & Lantern_’?” you snorted, pulling a face behind your mask.** As if to mock you, a seagull chose that precise moment to let out an ear-piercing screech from the crumbling windmill to your left, and you laughed a little. “I don’t know if that name’s clever or horrible.”

                Solas smirked from your right. “I’m sure the people who originally named it thought it quite appropriate, at the least.” He seemed even more distracted than he had on the road. The elf was constantly fiddling with the hems of his sleeves as he walked, a nervous tick you’d noticed increasing in frequency the past few days of your trip. Oh, Solas impressively knew how to hide it, but you would never have made it far in Thedas (or Nirn, for that matter) had you not known how to read people.

                You decided to shrug instead of pry—Solas seemed a level-headed sort and you trusted he would speak up either when he was ready or when the subject became too important to keep. “I just think they passed up a perfect opportunity to name it ‘ _The Lake and Tower_ ’. Sithis, even ‘ _The Cliffs and Bay_ ’ or something would have been better than the bloody ‘ _Gull and Lantern_ ’. The two don’t even _go_ together!” That got a chuckle out of him, at least.

                “Frig whatever the name is. They _do_ have food there, right?” Sera whined from the back of the group. For having Fereldan origins, the tiny archer was dealing miserably with the cold. Had she not have been expending so much energy annoying you and Solas, you’d have perhaps been honestly worried about her shivering. “I’m starving.”

                You whipped around to face Solas with a mock expression of incredulousness he couldn’t see. “Did you hear that? I could have sworn it sounded like the whining of an ignorant cur, but I _could_ be mistaken. Maybe.” He cracked a grin at Sera’s shriek of indignation, but before your fellow elf could respond, Alan shot a sour look over his shoulder at the three of you.

                “Enough already, you guys.”

                Raising your hands in mock surrender, you bowed your head in submission to the request. Sera huffed from behind you, but fell into quiet grumbles despite her obvious desire to argue her point. The Herald’s attention seemed caught on Solas, however, as it appeared the elf’s grin had faded far too quickly. You frowned. He was distracted again.

                “Solas,” Alan implored the mage, hesitant through his curiosity, “is everything okay?”

                Solas was dazed for a moment when he was pulled out of his thoughts, uncharacteristic of him. “I…my apologies, Alan. It is the Fade…it is feeling odd.”

                That caused the Herald to start. “Odd?” His voice was pure alarm. “Odd how?” You stopped messing with your daggers to listen. If _Solas_ of all people thought that the Fade was feeling weird… You thought back to the strange time issue with the Rift you all had closed outside the village. Maybe the Breach’s power was…evolving? Or perhaps someone was trying to mess with it deliberately? While you certainly weren’t an expert on Thedosian magic (far from it, in fact), you really didn’t think that boded well. At least in Nirnish terms, messing with time in any way never tended to end for the better.

                Your companion seemed reluctant to answer for a moment. “The Veil is weaker here than in Haven.” He finally admitted with resignation in his lilted tenor. “And not merely weak, but altered in a way I’ve not seen before.”

                The words “ _veil_ ” and “ _altered_ ” being relevant to each other made your skin crawl. “It’s been _altered_? That… Solas, _please_ tell me that can be accidental?”

                “To the extent that it warps time?” He asked you rhetorically. “No. I have witnessed alterations done by the presence of spirits and spells gone awry non-purposefully, and it felt _nothing_ like this.”

                Immediately, Sera’s incoherent grumbles turned harsher, and you swore you heard a distinct mutter of “too much mage-y shite.” You all were in front of a statue now that lay in Redcliffe’s square. It was a familiar hunk of marble, one of a griffon you knew to have a plaque that gave a brief, sterilized and generic overview of the Hero of Ferelden. The whole thing made you smirk when you brushed a fingertip over the smooth, weathered rock—Nerys absolutely hated the damned thing.

                Alan gave another one of his heavy sighs. “We’ll need to be careful, then. Lys, would you mind heading in to the tavern first? If there’s a trap, I want to know about it beforehand, and you’re an uncanny sneak.” The flattery was obvious, but even before he’d finished speaking you knew you would do it. It was a sound strategy, and while the Trevelyan was inherently stubborn arguably to the point of ridiculousness, he wasn’t stupid. He’d realized that _something_ was wrong, and he was taking precautions. You couldn’t fault him for that.

                “Alright.” You nodded briskly. “If I’m not back in five minutes, assume it checked out. It’s probably too crowded for me to be slipping to and from to give reports without being noticed.”

                He crossed his arms over his imposing armor. His eyes were the hard jade of a firm decision, and you were reminded yet again that trying to sway the man from at least conversing with the mages was a moot point. It didn’t matter how badly you wished you could convince him otherwise. Alan Trevelyan had made up his mind, and his mind was set on the Rebels.

                _Wait a minute_ , you thought with a frown as you trudged up the hills. _Why is it always a tavern?_

***

 ** _The Gull and Lantern_** **had an air about it.** You couldn’t quite put your finger on it, but it was there. Weariness, melancholy, hope, victory—those emotions permeated the atmosphere with all sorts of laughter, tears, and talk. Ale was flowing—maybe not _freely_ , but tankards _were_ slapped onto tables, and the stench of alcohol was barely tempered enough to be tolerable. People were…conflicted. Ordinary patrons either watched the room like hawks or slumped over their mugs and tried to pretend the world didn’t exist. The folk magically inclined were various ranges of frightened and confident, and they were either immune to the few hostile stares or didn’t notice them. Some were drinking. Others were not.

                Invisibility spell in place, you found a shadowed corner and settled down to wait. You felt a full field of vision was better for your particular mission, and had cautiously removed your gloves. The wooden floor was gritty on your palms. It was a hazy picture, but it would do for your purposes.

                The barkeeper looked like he had indulged a little too much in his own wares, you noticed with amusement as the man stumbled around behind his bar. He looked like one of the ones who just wanted the ground to open up and swallow him whole before the sky could be given the chance, but the coin kept him relatively placid where it failed to keep him sober. Who looked to be the man’s daughter was situated behind him with a bitter look on her face that made it seem as if she had swallowed something sour. She obviously wasn’t too happy with the mages in her father’s tavern if the constant glower she had in Fiona’s direction counted for anything.

                Fiona herself was huddled with two other mages, one male and one female, both human, and you focused on them in study. While the man was ensconced in ratty leathers with a few plates of metal that barely passed as armor, the Aedric magic flowing through the place embraced him like an old friend. He wouldn’t have been able to hide from a Templar if his life depended on it. Neither would have the woman, but that was more because of her obvious staff and robes than the way magic moved about her. A yell from across the room courtesy of a drunk patron broke your concentration, and the lines of energies in the tiny space became muddled to you once more.

                Whispers that you couldn’t hear over the tavern’s din were bandied back and forth. Cross looks were abundant, as were fretful glances between each of the three parties. Fiona still managed to retain her air of superiority and control, though it was as meek as you remembered it being in Val Royeaux. The elf was the type of person to lead with a kind word and a well-thought gesture. She didn’t appear sure of her choices at all, the war having no doubt made her be forced to think on her feet, and doubt was the doorway to misfortune.

                And Grand Enchanter Fiona doubted something quite fiercely.

                “Are you sure about this?” The quiet whimpers of the Fereldan woman speaking to Fiona filtered through the general noise of the tavern. You honed your ears. “I don’t…Maker preserve us! Do you really think Tevinter will help?”

                The man was the one who answered her quickly before Fiona could get a word in. “Hush, Ina. Do you really think crawling back to the Chantry and having them put us under lock and bloody key again will do us any good? Especially with that thing in the sky?” His Orlesian accent was thick with incredulity, and you almost snorted. So the mages at least _were_ aware of the Breach – with the way they were going at the Templars with such little abandon, they certainly could have fooled you.

                “Farrin,” Fiona warned with a stern tone, “enough. Ina, I promise you that all will be—”

                All heads turned to the tavern door and the group that had just noisily shuffled its way through. Alan held himself as was befitting of a nobleman, but his presence, though assured, was hesitant. Like with Fiona, he lacked conviction to lead. Though, unlike the mage who certainly lacked his noble upbringing, his presence still commanded attention, and that was assuredly a good thing if he intended to sway the mages.

                The Grand Enchanter’s address was…solid, as if her previous conversation hadn’t been interrupted at all. “Welcome, agents of the Inquisition.” There was a pause, though with the distance and the people crowded around him, you couldn’t tell if Alan gave any sort of response. “Might I ask what brings you to Redcliffe?” _Red flag_ , you noted. Deciding to drop your invisibility spell in increments and stuff your gloves back onto your hands, you slinked up behind Solas. To his credit, he didn’t noticeably jump when you laid a hand on his arm to silently announce your that you were behind him, but he still tensed quite a bit and shot you what you could tell to be a dirty look. However, he thankfully took the gesture for what it was—a signal for caution—and inched his hand closer to his staff. A nudge to Sera had her own hand fingering one of the glass vials on her belt in an unassuming manner that appeared more as disinterested playing than reaching for a weapon.

                If Alan or Fiona were any the wiser to the three of you upping your guard, they didn’t acknowledge it. “Your invitation in Val Royeaux? You asked us to come to Redcliffe to speak with you.” You expected Fiona to be playing coy, but if anything, Alan’s admission seemed to puzzle her.

                “I invited you…?” the elf shook her head quickly. “No, no, you must be mistaken. I haven’t been to Val Royeaux since before the Conclave.”

                “Then who did we meet?” You mused, quiet though still audible to all parties involved. “She appeared and sounded exactly as you do.” And magic reacted to her in the exact same way, but you weren’t about to admit _that_ little tidbit out loud.

                She darted her eyes towards you. “Exactly like me? I _suppose_ it could be magic at work…however…why would anyone…?” A heavy sigh escaped the elf. “I’m afraid it does not matter anymore. The situation has…changed.”

                “This Magister we’ve been hearing about, I take it?”

                Looking at Alan again, Fiona nodded. “Yes. The free mages have already… _pledged_ themselves to the service of the Tevinter Imperium. And as one in service to a Magister, I no longer have authority to negotiate with you.” Your elbow found its way into Alan’s back.

                “ _Told you so_ ,” you coughed. He didn’t pay attention to you.

                “An alliance with Tevinter is a terrible mistake,” Alan attempted to plead.

                Fiona flitted with the belt fastened around her waist. “Is it? All hope of peace died at the Conclave with the Divine. I agree, it is not… _ideal_. But can ideals really be afforded at a time like this, milord? I had to save as many of my people as I could, and this was the only way to do it!”

                So she was desperate, then. You shook your head. Desperation had lost you your own war those years ago—how would it have been any different with the mages?

                _SLAM!_ You hadn’t felt the mage approach, but once your attention was drawn to him, you had to question how you hadn’t. He was powerful, cloaked in magic as he was. The other presence with him was slightly less so, but definitely not to be trifled with. You crossed your arms around your abdomen to place your hands closer to your daggers.

                “Welcome, friends!” The jaunty voice was accented in a way you’d once heard, but never very clearly. Tevinter. This was the magister. “I apologize for the delay.” Smile in his tone, you wanted to stab him in the eye. From Sera’s mumbled insults beside you, so did she.

                Fiona announced, “Agents of the Inquisition, allow me to introduce Magister Gereon Alexius.”

                “The southern mages are under _my_ command,” Alexius said, making quick work of taking over the conversation. Though he was addressing the four of you, you couldn’t help but feel like his jovialness was focused solely on Alan. You narrowed your eyes at this. “And you are the survivor, yes? From the Fade? Interesting…”

                Thankfully, Alan chose the more diplomatic response. Whether it was because he recognized that escaping the situation if it turned hostile would have been difficult or because he was feeling generous that day, you didn’t know. “If you’re leading the mages, then let us talk. I’m sure we can come to some sort of arrangement.”

                “Always a pleasure to meet a reasonable sort…” The two walked off towards a table. Alexius called to the person he’d entered with, apparently his son named Felix, to fetch a scribe for the ensuing talks, but you didn’t pay much heed. You were more concerned with the rattling cough Felix gave on his way out the door, and the relentless stench of sickness radiating off of him as he passed you. The boy was ill, that much was certain. How ill, though, you couldn’t say.

                “Something seem off about Felix to you?” you whispered sideways to Solas. You and the two other elves were hanging back away from the negotiations, hoping that your presence wouldn’t appear too threatening if you weren’t crowding.

                Solas eyed the door to the tavern for a moment like he was considering something before nodding. “Yes—though I cannot pinpoint what, exactly.” Suddenly, the door opened again and the object of your conversation slipped back inside. You, Solas, and Sera shared a look of curiosity.

                “Well,” you muttered. “That was quick.”

                Felix barely made it up to the table before he began…stumbling? Alan and Alexius shot up from their chairs, though the Herald was closest and able to catch the young man before his face met the stone floor. “Felix!” Alexius’ worried gasp caused any ambient conversation within the tavern to cease in its entirety.

                “My lord, I’m so sorry,” Felix rasped. “Please forgive me.”

                Alexius worried, “Are you alright, Felix?”

                “I’m fine, Father,” the boy tried to brush off, but it was obvious the Magister was having nothing of it.

                “Come, I’ll get your powders.” _Powders_? You wrinkled your nose. Tevinter medicine was not something you were familiar with, and the healing used in the south didn’t tend to use…powders… “Fiona, I’ll need your assistance back at the caste. Please forgive me, friends. We will have to continue this another time!” With that, the two Tevinters and former Grand Enchanter hustled out of the tavern like the Blight itself was at their heels. You kept your head turned in their direction even after the heavy door slammed shut and you, Solas, and Sera had walked up to stand with Alan.

                Sera snorted. “Load of good that did us.”

                “Felix slipped me something…,” Alan said, though he sounded distracted. There was a rustling of paper. “‘ _Come to the Chantry. You are in danger._ ’”

                “Right, too-friendly Magister’s son suddenly stumbles into you, giving you a note telling you you’re in danger and to come to the Chantry. I think that’s a perfect reason _not_ to go to the Chantry—it’s obviously a set-up.”

                Solas shook his head. “Perhaps it is _too_ obvious.”

                “Maybe that’s what they _want_ us to think,” you retorted with a shrug. “It’s a brilliant mind game if it is; and a potent thing if it works.”

                “Trap or not,” Alan shifted lightly, “it’s the best chance we have at a lead. Alexius is shady, and I want to know why.” Unannounced, there was a hum of agreement from behind your group, and the four of you whipped around to face the intruder.

                The voice that spoke was familiarly off in tone, and your stomach lurched uncomfortably. “You are wise to be mistrustful of the Magister.” You started. No…

                “ _Daylen_?!” Further shocked that it was not just your own voice that had exclaimed the Tranquil’s name, you shot your head around to stare blankly in Alan’s direction, much as he was to you.

                “Wait,” the Herald gaped. “How do you two know each other?”

                “Me? How do _you_ two know each other?”

                Daylen answered, smoothly cutting off the Herald’s attempt to do so in a way you probably would have considered amusing in any other situation. “Alan’s aunt and my mother were good friends. We spent the majority of our childhood together before I was sent to the Circle.”

                You felt suitably chastised; though that had certainly been the last thing the mage had been going for. “Oh, right. Free Marches nobility tends to know each other. I’m sorry, Daylen—I had forgotten that you’re an Amell. To answer your question, Alan, I…hmm… _worked_ with a few people in Kinloch Hold’s Circle Tower a few years back. Daylen was assisting one of my contacts. Speaking of, where’s Dagna? I thought she’d be with you after the Circles fell.”

                “We were traveling together, for a time,” Daylen began, his voice bringing you a small bit of comfort at knowing that he was alright. “She insisted we part ways before the Conclave—she said something about wishing to conduct some research in the Free Marches. She is still there, I believe. I contacted her advising she not join me in Redcliffe. Magister Alexius’ attitude towards Tranquil are…unkind—I along with all other Tranquil who accompanied the Grand Enchanter have been asked to leave the village. I felt his stance towards her would have been worse.”

                Solas frowned, shifting his staff in his hands. “Why would the Magister’s opinion of her be worse?” The tension coming off of the elf in waves spoke volumes, though of what was slightly more difficult to discern. You applied it to the general discomfort felt by many around Tranquil (being a mage himself would have given him even more reason to feel awkward about the subject), but with Solas, anything was possible.

                “Dagna’s a dwarf,” you interjected quickly, “an Arcanist. She studies magical theory and can apply it in…interesting ways. But that is neither here nor there. I’m more concerned about the Tranquil being run out of the village.”

                Sera squeaked from where she had cowered behind Alan, “Innit you Tranquil thingies who can’t go all demon-y? Doesn’t make sense why he’d wanna kick _you_ out.” Daylen audibly shifted—something he had quickly gotten into the habit of doing while in your presence—and stared at Sera, who shuffled further behind the warrior in an uncharacteristic display of fear. It was probably his eyes, you mused, that had her on edge. You’d only gotten a glimpse of them once, but they had been almost soullessly set in a clear face that was unnerving, blank and void of everything save maybe consciousness. It was not a happy thing to see.

                “We Tranquil cannot be possessed,” Daylen admitted. “However, we also cannot access magical energies, and therefore are useless in practical applications of the arcane. A majority of Tranquil serve as researchers; less still work with lyrium as enchanters.”

                Alan hummed, not seeming to notice Sera all but using him as a human shield—either that or he didn’t care. “Controlling the mages, kicking the Arl out and sending Tranquil packing right along with…sounds like Alexius is up to something.”

                “He _kicked the Arl out?_ ” you asked, completely befuddled and miffed that the Herald had been informed of it first. “There’s no way Teagan would go willingly from what I’ve heard, and Redcliffe is the most defensible village and keep in Ferelden! He’d need an army—a very _large_ army—to even _think_ of pulling that off, and even then I have my reservations.”

                Daylen droned in response. “No one quite knows how the Magister accomplished it. Arl Teagan simply left the village a few days after the arrival of the Tevinter mages, his personal guards going with him. There are rumors that threats were exchanged, but other than the resulting announcement of the Arl’s banishment, nothing is clear.”

                “Creepy magister is up to something: confirmed,” you sighed.

                Solas piped up, “How many mages did the Magister bring with him?” The Tranquil seemed to consider the elf’s words carefully, and you could almost picture a look of frustration on his face when he answered.

                “I would estimate somewhere around fifteen or twenty, but since he has gained control and use of the castle, I cannot discount the possibility of there being more hidden within its walls.”

                “How’d he manage to get that many of ‘em in the village without someone getting’ their knickers in a twist about it? They stick out worse than Ser Glowy-Hand in the middle of the night…,” Sera grumbled around a mouthful of food she’d gotten from…somewhere, though her words were almost gleeful. You yourself snorted at Alan’s moniker while the warrior in question let out a strangled noise of disagreement. Daylen just looked at the archer.

                “They arrived a day after the Grand Enchanter posing as monks fleeing the Rifts. The Magister followed within the day.”

                Solas’ grim nod was appropriate. Nothing about the situation was good, in retrospect. “They were counting on the Chantry to shelter them. It was a clever cover.” Much to your amazement, the Tranquil’s response was abruptly negative.

                He rebuked, “No. I do not think it was necessarily meant as a ruse. They were not posing as members of the Chantry and wore strange green robes with amulets. I managed to come into possession of one shortly after the Magister took over.” Rummaging through several pouches secured on his belt, Daylen finally pulled something out. Alan reached his hand out to receive the item, and you were childishly amused at how he faltered when the amulet was passed to you instead.

                “Hmm, the robes were meant as distractions, maybe?” you hummed, running the uncovered pads of your fingers over the scarred metal inconspicuously. It was a dragon rearing up at some invisible foe, cast in what seemed to be some type of steel. However, the alloy was tainted orange somehow. You frowned at it, annoyed and suddenly wishing Vienelé was there. If anyone would have been able to place or otherwise figure out what the damned thing was, it was the Breton. “It’s… _familiar_ , but I can’t place from _where_. Then again, dragons are common symbols…do you mind if I hold on to it? The Inquisition’s spymaster and I can ask our contacts—between the two of us, I’m sure one of us knows someone who knows _something_ of this.”

                Hearing Daylen nod in acquiescence, you quickly turned your attention back to the trinket in your hands. Perhaps too easily, you tuned out the conversation between him and the rest of the group that sparked up. A tugging in the back of your mind caused you to furrow your brow. The item almost felt enchanted, but that wasn’t quite it and it irritated you more than it should have that you couldn’t place the resemblance. After a few more moments of scrutiny, you finally stuffed the amulet into a pouch and shook your head. That dream had to have messed with your head—you had to be imagining things.

                “I would offer my services to the Inquisition, if you would have me.” You caught Daylen’s voice as it was trailing off, but the gist of where the conversation had turned wasn’t lost on you. “I am no longer welcome in Redcliffe, and I fear that sentiment would be reflected wherever I would go.”

                Alan didn’t miss a beat, bless his heart. “Of course—you’re welcome in Haven. We could always use researchers, and I certainly wouldn’t turn you away. And…Daylen?” Silence followed what you could only guess was as encouraging look the mage could supply. “I’m sorry, about what happened to you. If I’d have known…” Your gaze softened, for all the good it did. Daylen must have relayed the story of how he had become Tranquil, then. You thought you’d heard Solas’ disapproving glower simmering in the background of your thoughts.

                Light brown curls were tossed about as the power-stripped man shook his head. “You could have done nothing.” It was a sad platitude—a hopeful placation that had no chance of working, but he said it anyway. Sometimes…sometimes Daylen seemed more human than you knew he was anymore. And you didn’t quite know why that made you sad.

                “Still...” Alan’s furrowed brow refused to ease, even after he sighed. “Come on. We’ve got a Chantry to investigate.”

                You delayed for a few beats and turned to your Tranquil…your Tranquil _what_ , exactly? Associate was too impersonal. You’d gotten to know Dagna and Daylen well in the numerous times you’d conferred with them on their lyrium research, even using them as fonts of information long after your own endeavors into the subject had proven null. Maybe years ago, you would have called him a friend. But years ago, you were a different person. Years ago, you didn’t have a warning ringing through your head that you couldn’t piece together. Years ago, you could trust people.

                Now, you could never be sure.

                So you clapped the man on the shoulder, his robes rough through the glove, and made as good eye contact as you were able. “Be careful.”

                As you followed Alan out the door, you pretended not to hear the answering, “You as well.”

***

 **“So, I’m betting mages,” Alan offered smugly as you all walked down the winding path.** Sera rolled her eyes through her incessant fidgeting, and you swore her stomach growled, though you couldn’t fathom how. She’d literally just eaten not five minutes ago.

                “That ain’t friggin’ fair,” pouted the elf as she un-stoppered and re-stoppered a vial. She was itching to shoot something; there was no doubt in your mind. “Place is crawling with magister-thingies. How could it _not_ be mages?”

                You interjected dryly, “I’m more awed at the fact that you’re even trying to make wagers on this. The note telling you to walk into this obvious trap was given to you by a mage, in a town harboring mages…did I mention that the town harboring mages was also _taken over_ by mages? Well, it was. And you have a mage in your party with you. So I think that it goes without saying that mages are going to _somehow_ be involved in this fool’s errand.”

                “But _Lyyyyyyys_ ,” whined the Herald in such a childish manner, you were suddenly befuddled that he’d made it to the tender age of twenty-three. “We’re just meeting Felix in the Chantry. What’s the _worst_ that could happen?” Swiftly and promptly, you whacked the warrior on the back of his helmetless, chestnut head. As you’d predicted he would, he whined and clutched the back of his skull. You rolled your eyes—you’d barely tapped him, so you knew the whole scene was purely for show and definitely not from legitimate pain. At least, you hoped. He was a warrior. If the kid couldn’t take a little pain, then you worried for the future of the Inquisition.

                “And now you’ve jinxed us, Trevelyan. Thanks.”

                “Oh, come on! I have no—”

                Everyone froze just outside the colossal wooden door of Redcliffe’s Chantry. At the telltale fizzling sound of Alan’s marked hand, you slowly turned your mask’s ironbark scowl in his direction, hoping that the etched expression somehow managed to convey the promise of pain and murderous intent. Something also told you that your sentiments were shared by Solas and Sera.

                As quickly as the moment of incredulity arrived, it was gone and a sense of urgency had taken its place. Within moments, your little group had barged your way into the house of worship (firmly barring the door behind you—no need for pesky demons to slip out unhindered and hassle the villagers), only to find something curious but not entirely unexpected. A mage (not Felix, though)…slamming the blunt end of his staff down onto the skull of a shade. You nodded in approval before you could catch yourself. _Not bad…_

                The man seemed to notice you all after a second, and he remarked while tossing a bolt of lightning almost leisurely into a lesser terror, “Ah, there you are! Took you long enough. Now, help me close this thing, would you?” _Tevinter accent_? You sighed—it seemed there would be no getting around that. Glass pommels flittered easily through your fingers as you slipped just as easily into the shadows of a nearby pillar.

                Fighting and hacking and slashing was cold and methodical, however the new Tevinter’s magic was anything but. While you couldn’t see it, it felt flashy and elaborate. It was over-the-top, and while you knew as good as nothing when it came to actually wielding Thedosian magic, you were almost positive that his spells would have been tremendously more effective if he put less effort into making them look good.

                That wasn’t to say he wasn’t rather talented. Like most of his nationality, it seemed the man possessed the inborn gift of over-exaggerated magical ability that came with being Tevinter. He just…focused more of himself into showmanship than effectiveness. You didn’t know if you found it comical or suspicious.

                In the lull between waves of demons, you snarled at Alan as you stood back-to-back with him and Sera. “I hate you so much right now.” A fireball sailed not two feet from your masked face and into that of a wraith before the Herald could get a chance to rebuke your comment courtesy of the Tevinter. You barely resisted trying to throw a knife at him out of reflex.

                “Less talking and more killing demons would be nice, you know! I can’t _always_ be available to save the day!” Part of you wanted to laugh. The other part wanted to stab him. The rest of you wanted to sleep, but that one was neither here nor there.

                The rest of the fight went over fairly quickly once both Sera and Solas this time managed find spots where time was quickened. Alan’s weird mark wriggled and yanked shut the rift, much to the Tevinter’s excitement. “I’d heard the stories, of course, but to see it… How does that work, exactly?” Crickets. You could hear damned crickets, you swore.

                “Erm…”

                Snorting, the mage gestured to Alan’s hand. “You don’t even know, do you? You just wiggle your fingers, and _boom!_ Rift closes…”

                That actually gave you a question, and your eyes narrowed in contemplation. How _did_ Alan’s mark work, exactly?

                “Who are you? I’m supposed to be meeting Felix…”

                The Tevinter bobbed his head. “Yes, he was supposed to meet us here after slipping you the note. He probably had trouble shaking his father. I’m sure he’ll be here soon, not to worry.”

                You made a show of sheathing your daggers, just for the express purpose of demonstrating how quickly you’d be able to _un_ sheathe them. “That’s where Felix is, not who you are.” Alan’s voice was surprisingly level considering his whining moments beforehand. He’d been in the middle of training to become a Templar before being sent to the Temple of Sacred Ashes on what was meant to be a training exercise, or so you’d heard through your little grapevine. It was times like these where that training of command shone thorough.

                If only it could shine through _all_ the time, then the Inquisition would be in business, you couldn’t help thinking snidely.

                His response was full of pomposity and grandeur, but you thought you heard a smirk of amusement in there somewhere. “Getting ahead of myself again, I see. Dorian of House Pavus, most recently of Minrathous. How do you do?” You scoffed.

                “I’d be careful if I were you,” you warned lowly. “It was an awful lot of trouble to get us all the way out here. I don’t buy it.”

                Dorian scoffed at you, “ _Suspicious_ friends you have here.”

                “Someone has to be.”

                “Touché,” he chuckled. “Anyway, Magister Alexius was once my mentor, you see. So I’m sure you can imagine that my assistance will prove _invaluable_.” _Assuming we let you_ assist _at all_ , you thought with a sneer. _Pompous_ was right about this mage. Or moronic—who came right out and told someone that the shady magister was once their _mentor_?

                Alan said, “Is something wrong with Felix? That illness act had Alexius leaping out of his seat faster than if it had been on fire.”

                The Tevinter’s hesitance was not lost on you, nor was it lost on Solas by the way he nodded slightly when you nudged him to get his attention. For not (that you could tell) being trained in subtlety, the elf was remarkably good at it.

                “Felix has had a lingering illness for months now—seems to be incurable,” Dorian finally admitted. “He’s also an only child, and Alexius is a mother hen. I wouldn’t read too much into it.”

                _Too late_ , you thought. You already had. “Lingering illness” didn’t sound pleasant, and it could be a slur of different things all ranging in terms of severity. But maybe…your hand twitched when a ghost of warmth that was not there tingled down your fingers. You’d never tried healing someone from Thedas. Thedosian healing magic burned you…would your magic do the same in return, you wondered?

                “Stop talking like you’re waiting for applause. Just tell me what’s going on,” groused the Herald, drawing you out of your wandering thoughts.

                “ _What_?” Dorian gasped, sounding too horrified for the emotion to have been genuine. “There’s no applause? Oh, alright. The danger should go without saying, note or no note. First, let’s look at Alexius claiming the rebel mages right out from under you. As if by magic, hmm?”

                Eyes narrowed into slits, you wondered if the mage was suggesting what you thought he was suggesting. It wasn’t possible. _Time travel_ wasn’t possib—

                You stopped yourself short. You had traveled between worlds; ancient Nords had cast an evil dragon god adrift _through_ time…in fact, _how_ many Dragon Breaks had happened back in Nirn, again? While those things had occurred in a different world, realm, or what have you, they did serve to remind that time was more malleable than you were giving it credit for. And if anyone in Thedas could figure out how to manipulate it, it would have to be a Tevinter Magister.

                “You’d be right if you guessed _yes_. Alexius distorted time to get to Redcliffe before the Inquisition. It wasn’t a race _against_ time, so much as playing tug of war and breaking the rope.”

                Could such magic cause a Dragon Break, you wondered? Did those even _work_ in Thedas? Uneasily, you flicked your gaze upwards though the effort was futile. Even if Mnemoli _could_ be seen whipping her way along the Aurbis, it wouldn’t be by you—not anymore. And you didn’t feel any sort of spiritual anguish you couldn’t account for, so that was something at least. Still…

                “Hey, Solas?” You whispered.

                “Yes?”

                “Has there been a strange blue star in the sky recently that I may have, uh…missed?”

                You could practically _feel_ the look screaming questions about your sanity boring into the side of your head. “No. No there hasn’t. Why do you ask?”

                “Er, no reason…”

                Apparently, during you side conversation with Solas, Sera had shrieked a lament about mages messing with time, and Dorian had scoffed at her. “You saw how this rift twisted time around itself. If I’m correct, and I always am, soon there will be more like it appearing farther and farther away from the village. Oh, and it gets better. This magic is extraordinarily unstable. It’s unraveling the world.”

                Was Solas _sure_ there wasn’t a blue star suddenly appearing in the sky? It kind of sounded like there should be, along with Mehrunes Dagon clambering out of Oblivion again or something. Maybe Sheogorath, too. This whole thing was already uncomfortably like the stories of the Oblivion Crisis—why not add a Daedric Prince to the mix of “wildly unstable” and “unraveling world”? At least maybe then you’d have some concrete idea of what was going on, however small an aspect.

                Alan, however, rolled his eyes. You didn’t expect him to get the gravity of the situation before, and now with your wariness of unstable time and wondering if it could cause a Dragon Break (because, honestly, that was the last thing anyone needed), his naiveté was almost welcome. “I’m going to need more to go on than ‘ _magical time control—go with it!_ ’”

                “I _know_ what I’m talking about,” Dorian insisted gravely. “I helped develop this magic when I was still Alexius’ apprentice.” He was really pushing the “please trust me” envelope, wasn’t he? _Who admitted to helping develop the_ unstable _time-control magic threatening to_ unravel the gods-forsaken world _?!?_

                “Of course, it was all just theoretical back then. We could never get it to work, but it seems as if Alexius has been doing more research since then. What I don’t understand, though, is _why_? All this just to gain a few hundred lackeys? It’s…too much.”

                “He didn’t do it for them.” The gravelly voice was familiar, as was the gait you’d heard approaching with the lingering stench of sickness. Felix. “My father’s joined some kind of cult. The _Venatori_. They’re Tevinter supremacists, and whatever he’s done for them? He’s done it to get to you.” The kid didn’t waste time on preamble or let Dorian huff out the greeting he just barely caught in his throat, directing the last part pointedly at Alan. You frowned, digging through your pouch of goodies to pull out the amulet you’d received from Daylen.

                “Is this one of theirs?” you asked. Felix took the trinket and examined it curiously. “We were told that the Venatori agents entered the village as sleepers, posing as monks garbed in green robes. My contact managed to grab one of these. He said that each ‘ _monk_ ’ was wearing one.”

                Pondering it a moment, the boy handed it back to you once his curiosity was suitably sated. “I knew the agents arrived in disguise, for the most part, but I couldn’t tell you what they were disguised as. As for the amulet, I’ve seen it, but only once. My father has an advisor. He’s a strange man, hooded most of the time, and I assumed he was someone from the Venatori. I only saw him one time in passing and didn’t get a good look at his face, but he was wearing a symbol just like this.”

                “This is the first time I’ve heard of this advisor,” Dorian frowned. “Did you catch his name?”

                Felix shook his head, “It started with an _O_ , I think. I’m sorry. Father never mentioned him, and I never saw the man again. I don’t believe he’s here in Redcliffe, though.”

                “Hmm…,” you pocketed the amulet again, determined to think on the matter another time. “Moving on, why would they go through all this trouble just to get to Trevelyan. I mean, that mark on his hand is something, and he survived a blast that almost leveled an entire mountainside. But this is ridiculous.”

                Alan looked insulted. “Are you saying I’m not worth the effort?”

                “Hardly. There are easier ways of trying to kill, capture, or talk to you than throwing time and its laws on its head.”

                “They’re obsessed with him for some reason. Perhaps _because_ he survived the Temple of Sacred Ashes?”

                Dorian suggested, “You _can_ close the rifts. There could be a connection there. Maybe they see you as a threat.”

                It was a daunting prospect, the elephant in the room no one was brave enough to broach until Solas did so. “That would be logical if these Venatori were _behind_ the Breach in the first place.”

                _Thanks, Solas_ , you thought, un-amused. _Thanks a lot for bringing up that ray of sunshine_.

                Shuddering, Felix’s answer was no more reassuring than Solas’ suggestion. “If the Venatori _are_ behind this, then they’re even worse than I thought…”

                “Well, you know expecting the trap is the first step in shifting the odds in your favor,” was Dorian’s cheeky input. “Alexius doesn’t know I’m in Redcliffe, and I’d rather it stay that way. Meaning, _I_ can’t stay, but whenever you decide to deal with him…I want to be there. I’ll be in touch, Herald.” With a flourish, the mage turned to walk away. Within a few steps, he seemed to remember an addendum he wanted to make, as he turned to walk backwards.

                “Oh, and Felix? Try not to get yourself killed?”

                Though his response was all-too fatalistic for someone his apparent age, you had to agree with what Felix said next. “There are worse things than dying, Dorian.”


	15. Chapter 14

“ _What I’ve felt.  
What I’ve known.  
Never shined through in what I’ve shown.  
Never free.  
Never me.  
So I dub thee ‘_ Unforgiven _’.”_  

-Metallica, “ _Unforgiven_ ”

* * *

 

**_~Thedas – 9:41 Dragon~_ **

* * *

**The memory of the last time you’d had a full night’s sleep eluded you now that you took a moment to think about it.** Brisk night air rattled the edges of the cheap canvas tent you’d purchased from the merchant at the Crossroads, chilling you through even your three layers of blanket. It wasn’t the rustling of your poorly-tacked shelter, the endless crackle-pop from the fire, or even Sera’s snoring three tents over that was keeping you awake, though. Rather, nightmares were the culprit. You couldn’t remember the last time you’d not had one. It had to have been before Nirn fell. Probably earlier, actually. In those weeks leading up to the end, no one had gotten much sleep for preference of running camp-to-camp, shelter-to-shelter just trying to keep alive long enough to win. And even then, despite all the effort poured into the endeavor, it still hadn’t been enough. Nirn still fell. You still failed. They still died.

                Sighing, you heaved yourself up from how you’d been laying on your back, sick of trying to sleep when you knew full well that you wouldn’t be able to. It never seemed to matter what you did or what precautions you tried to take, you always dreamed, always relived. You reached up to scrub a hand across your mask, only to have your glove meet flesh instead.

                _Always dream and throw the mask off while I’m at it_ , you amended with a bit of grudging amusement playing on the corner of your mouth. Locating the offending piece of ironbark haphazardly flung into the dirt next to your bedroll, you picked it up and cradled it in your hands. The frayed strap around the back had finally broken away like you’d been expecting it to any day now. It was a quick enough fix and most definitely not the first time you’d had to make it, but it was still annoying. Grumbling a profanity under your breath, you dragged your pack closer and began rummaging around for the spare you’d bought but never gotten around to attaching.

                Your hand kept bumping into various knick-knacks, and you had to wonder how in the Void you’d collected so much junk. A roll of parchment was shoved aside, followed by three empty ink bottles, some loose coppers, a sprig of elfroot you couldn’t for the life of you recall picking, twine, a half-empty water skin, two vials of invisibility potion, a silverite brooch—

                Wait.

                Almost of its own accord, the hand that was rooting for the strap curled traitorously around the little pin and pulled it from its leather confines. When your fingers slithered away, you were met with a cracked amethyst and metal dull from the lack of light in your tent. It was as mockingly useless as the day Flemeth had given it to you on Sundermount, the flaw being the only thing to make it remarkable. There weren’t even markings etched into its surface. There was just _nothing_. It was so unassuming, it was suspicious—and no, you didn’t quite understand how that worked, either.

                In your palm, it seemed heavier than you knew it was. But that could have easily been the implications behind the trinket rather than any physical bearing. Some mythological woman appearing out of nowhere, saying a few cryptic slurs, tossing something most would have considered trash at you, and then shape-shifting and disappearing not minutes before a breach into the Fade split open the sky leagues away probably did that, you supposed. _Timing was everything_ —or so Undilar liked to remind you when you were a child. Flemeth’s had been almost too perfect.

                You brought the brooch up to your cowl. Before you even realized what you were doing, the old one made of serpentstone was tucked back in your pack with all of your other junk and Flemeth’s had replaced it in keeping the ends together and fastened to the front of your tunic. It felt right somehow, and that scared you. _Asha’bellanar_ hadn’t asked you to _wear_ it, just to _keep_ it. You shouldn’t have done even _that_. She was a mythological figure, but she wasn’t _your_ mythological figure. You blamed the squabble of activity in Haven on distracting you from tossing the damn thing into a lake or something. _Wearing_ the accursed _frivolity_ was nowhere in the job description, and as far as you were concerned, what _was_ there happened to be more of an overlarge clause you really didn’t have to listen to.

                Despite your attempts to convince yourself of the contrary, the pin remained steadfastly clipped to your cowl as you victoriously yanked the replacement strap free from where it had tangled itself up in old, inked parchment rolls and moldy treats you kept for Beaker that you’d forgotten had been in your bag. You resolved to toss the crackers into the fire first chance you got with a wrinkled nose as you set about securing the length of fabric to the wood. They smelled something awful.

                It was only around fifteen minutes, but in the time it took for you to have your mask reaffixed to your face and covered by your cowl, Solas had come and gone in quietly waking Alan for last watch. Your camp was situated just a short walk from the Crossroads and shy of the road, lifted up on a hill. Despite its relative seclusion, Rifts and bandits still liked to crop up on occasion. A watch schedule had been an unspoken agreement between the four of you from the get-go. You could hear the Herald shifting cooking utensils and food around, no doubt trying to get some things laid around to make breakfast easier, and the thought of sustenance made you remember the forgotten bird treats in desperate need of disposal. After some debate, your hand reached for the canvas flap in front of you.

                “Solas mentioned he thought you were up. It’s not even close to dawn yet,” Alan commented, surprised when you finally decided to crawl out of your tent with your satchel slung over your shoulder. He was tossing something up in the air and catching it, the sound making you think it was probably an apple. The pans he’d been digging through were shoved off to the side, abandoned.

                Shrugging, you plopped down next to the warrior on the large tree stump he was using as a stool. “Couldn’t sleep.” You dropped your bag and began rummaging through it again for the crackers.

                “Are you still upset with me about the mages?”

                “What?” You furrowed your brows as you paused in your rooting, quickly shaking your head at the sudden question. “No. I’m not upset. I never was. I just think you’re being an idiot about it is all.”

                Alan scoffed. “You could have fooled me with how you were back at Haven.”

                You squeezed your eyes shut and tilted your head back with a sigh. “I’m not discussing this with you right now.”

                “Fine then,” sniffed the human. “Want to discuss how you ‘ _can’t sleep_ ’?”

                “Wait, you think my _insomnia_ is related to the fact that you made a decision I don’t agree with?”

                “It does seem a little coincidental.”

                You shot him the dirtiest glare you could possibly manage, hands still stuffed in your leather bag but frozen in place. “Oh, get over yourself! I’m not going to lose sleep over the fact that you seem Void-bent on making an ass of the Inquisition.” While this seemed to anger him, the Trevelyan did an admirable job of reigning in his frustration.

                Blowing a sigh through his nose, he asked, “Then why are you awake? We can’t afford to be a man down because you’re too tired to function.”

                “You won’t,” you snapped, yanking the handful of molded crackers out of your pack with more force than was necessary. “My reasons are my own, _Herald_. I won’t let a few nightmares make me a liability.” Treats were tossed into the fire harshly. Alan didn’t seem to notice or care, but he was blissfully silent, so you took what you could get. Sometimes, you wanted to _throttle_ the boy…

                “You’ve been having nightmares?” You froze. How did he…? Blushing a violent orange at your own carelessness, you bit down on your loose tongue as if the motion would take back the words you’d blurted out in anger.

                Stiffly (and with a very sore tongue), you replied, “Yes. It’s nothing new. Don’t concern yourself over it.”

                “Too late,” Alan fired back. “How long has this been going on?”

                Hesitation made you pause, but you knew Alan wouldn’t leave well enough alone without some sort of truthful answer. “Years.” Those particular ones about the war had been recurring for eleven, anyway. The Imperial ambush that had indirectly brought you to Skyrim had spawned several before that, and you’d always been a fitful sleeper regardless since you left Kvatch. Living in the wilderness tended to do that to a person.

                “What are they about?” inquired the man. _Red eyes, dissolving stone, golden sneers, decayed bone,_ you had to shake the flashes out of your mind. Alan’s curiosity was innocent. You knew this, but you still tensed up and only just resisted the urge to hit him and run. He couldn’t know about Nirn. _No one_ could know about Nirn. Mages in Thedas could be crazy enough as it was. If one of them found out how Tamriel had been torn to shreds…or, worse yet, _about the Daedra_ …

                A shaky inhale preceded your response. “An incident that happened what feels like a lifetime ago. I don’t want to speak of it. Please.” The last bit was added as an afterthought, not so much sincere as it was desperate. He simply _couldn’t_ pry. He _couldn’t_.

                “If…if you ever want to talk…,” he offered feebly, having intended to push the issue but deciding to drop it last minute. The sentiment was still appreciated. “Adan could probably fix something to help, too, if you wanted to ask him about it.” For some reason, you couldn’t imagine the childish Herald of Andraste or the surly alchemist doing much to listen to your problems even if you deigned to inform them of them. Even less so could you picture any concoction of Adan’s actually helping make the nightmares stop.

                You stood and shouldered your pack again. “Thank you, but I’ll be okay. I’m going to take a walk.” You got maybe ten steps towards the path to the road when you heard Alan make a hum of curiosity and scrape something up from the dirt. “Lys?” Swiveling, you turned your mask to him.

                “What’s this?” The warrior held something out to you. “I can’t read what it says.” As soon as your hand clasped around the folded parchment, you blanched. The name he couldn’t read slammed into you and left you nauseous. Practically tearing it out of his hands, you made quick work of stuffing the old piece of paper into your bag. It had to have fallen out when you’d so carelessly tugged out the crackers…

                “An old letter,” you said, dismayed to find your voice shaking almost as badly as your hands. Swallowing thickly in an attempt to throw off the panic rising in your throat, you clenched your hands into fists as if that would stop the trembling. It didn’t. “I write in a code. For security—I…I n-need to _go_.”

                You scurried away and left Alan standing awkwardly by the fire, the Nirnish characters you’d inked so long ago onto the letter trying to stab you with sentimentality. The blurb had been written out of guilt, an apology to someone who would never be able to read it and one that you couldn’t bring yourself to dispose of. You’d made a promise, and it was broken. You’d lost by letting the Thalmor rip Nirn to shreds in more ways than one. _Eldarah Ralvayn_ was dead because of your failure.

                You’d accepted that a long time ago, so why did the remorse still continue to gnaw at your insides?

***

 **The sun had fully risen by the time you stalked back to camp.** Your sour mood only lightened a bit, and it thankfully didn’t plummet again as Alan seemed to have sense enough not to do more than shoot you a weary glance when he caught sight of you. He didn’t pry for once, and you were thankful.

                After snatching up a pear for breakfast and gobbling it down in the privacy of your tent, you noted that no one seemed to be in a rush to get anywhere. Alan had been planning on returning to Haven. Or, so you thought he was. You didn’t understand, then, why he decided to go check in with the Crossroads alone around noon.

                Solas and Sera seemed just as confused as to the Herald of Andraste’s motives. While they were curious as Alan rarely deviated from his usually strict schedules, you just shrugged and decided to take the down time where you could. It probably had something to do with him knowing you hadn’t slept well the night before, and while that did irritate you (you weren’t fragile, for Mara’s sake), you weren’t going to complain. At least, not too much.

                So you lounged around camp with the other two elves, playing a few games of Wicked Grace with Sera despite your better judgment. The archer was better at the game than you’d have thought, but that could have been how half of what she said never made a lick of sense, so trying to catch her when she was lying was like trying to shoot a slaughterfish with an arrow in the dark. Solas slipped off partway through your game, only to return with an armful of herbs you couldn’t identify and promptly began mixing together some sort of potion that smelled like death and lemongrass. You decided not to ponder on the smell—alchemy could take turns for the weird all too often. It was only after your third game of cards and after Solas firmly corked his final bottle that Alan came clanging his way back to camp, victorious look on his face and bag stuffed with supplies slung over his shoulder.

                “Sera,” he called, dropping the bag by his personal pack which. “We’re heading back to Haven.”

                You ceased drumming your fingers on the stump you and she had been using as a table. “Isn’t it a bit late?” When you made to heave yourself to your feet and begin taking down your tent, a hand on your shoulder stopped you.

                Alan pushed you back to where you were sitting. “No, I said _Sera_. I need you and Solas to remain here and keep an eye on things.” You furrowed your brow suspiciously.

                “ _Why_?”

                He shrugged, beginning to tend to and prep his horse for travel. The Forder stallion, a contribution from Dennett and dubbed Crackerjack for whatever reason, nickered good-naturedly as he was saddled. “Solas is the Fade expert and can keep a better eye on this Rift situation than anyone else could conventionally. And you’re the best sneak should a situation come up where you need to get back into the village. Something tells me Alexius wouldn’t appreciate you wandering around in the open without me with you, unfortunately.” It…made sense, but you swore if you found out that this decision had something to do with him knowing about your nightmares…

                You puffed your cheeks out in resignation. “Fine. I’ll send a crow to Leliana if I find anything about that amulet.”

                “And I will keep you informed if anything changes with the Veil,” Solas added gravely, and you appreciated his seriousness. _At least_ , you placated yourself, _you weren’t being left behind with Sera_. There was a bright side to everything. If Alan would have decided to leave her behind with you, he’d return and find camp an elf short.

                You and Solas watched (or listened, in your case) almost disinterestedly as the Herald and archer proceeded to break their parts of the camp, which really only amounted to rolling up tents and slinging on a few packs. Still, there was that sense of abandonment gnawing uncomfortably at you as half of your party just up and walked (or galloped, as the case was) away. It didn’t make sense and was unfounded, but it was still there.

                Still. Fucking. There.

                Huffing a breath from your nose once the two were out of sight, you slumped down on a log and poked morosely at the fire with a stick. Compared to your completely undignified flop, Solas was fluid in sitting next to you and riffling through his pack of what smelled like herbs. The awkward silence was broken only by the clicking of a few empty potion bottles as the other mage gathered what he needed to continue his potion-making from earlier.

                When the stick eventually caught fire, you gave up on your improvised form of entertainment and chucked the flaming twig onto the half-ashen logs. You smelled lemongrass again. “Alright, I’ll bite—what the _Void_ are you making?”

                “A potion,” Solas answered so matter-of-factly, it took a moment for you to realize he was being sarcastic. An eyebrow rose. Well, _that_ was a change from the past few days of grumpy elf.

                “ _No_!” you drawled with just as much mockery dripping from your voice. “Really? Are you absolutely _sure_? I could have _sworn_ it was candy!”

                He gave you a look you could feel. It was even more amusing as you could vaguely see it from touching the log serving as your shared seating. When he didn’t seem to deign giving you a verbal response, you shrugged fluidly.

                “…very horrible candy…?”

                Scoffing in what you figured served as a laugh, Solas shook his head. “You’ve an odd sense of humor, _lethallan_.” At the term of familiarity, you couldn’t help but frown. A twinge of guilt tried to spark. Solas did know that you weren’t really Dalish, or at least that you weren’t raised to it. Conversely, he had no clue that your skin was gold, your eyes a solid green, and your face pointed and sharper than what it perhaps should have been, devoid of _vallaslin_ and obviously not Thedosian. You couldn’t blame him for his ignorance—as a mistress of selling secrets, you were also good at keeping them until the time was right. And often that time never came. You could, however, blame yourself for letting fester his assumption that just because you spoke limited _elvhen’an_ and claimed to be elven, you were the type he thought you were.

                You had spun so many half-truths… _Then again_ , you had to muse, _I have my doubts anyone in the Inquisition is being entirely honest to anyone else._ It seemed you were all a secretive bunch.

                “I’m an odd person,” you retorted, but it lacked its usual fire. “You didn’t answer my question.”

                The look he gave you was actually wary. “I’m…afraid you won’t be fond of the answer.”

                “I’m almost never ‘ _fond of the answer_ ’. Nice try,” you drawled. Crossing your arms, you shifted your weight in a clear challenge. If the elf wanted to play the avoidance game, he’d have to work for it.

                His already narrow blue eyes squinted further. “You could give The Iron Bull a run for his coin in observation, you know.”

                You sing-songed, “ _Not working!_ ”

                “It is alchemy,” Solas tried in an irritated tone. He’d risen to the bait entirely too early, so you figured that he was still feeling some unease over the state of the Veil. “The intricacies of which I’m sure would bore you to tears.”

                It was a gamble and revealed more information than you were perhaps ready to give, but you reached into the crumbled, shapeless heap your bag had become leaning up against your feet and retrieved one of the stoppered glass vials. The liquid within was mostly clear, the bit of fog caused by the aloe paste not having dissolved entirely during brewing. Within floated stringy chunks of radish and (you shuddered) rat meat. _Invisibility, more invisibility, and some muffling just in case—may my stomach’s wrath have mercy on my soul._ You held it up for the elf to see and swished its contents, the larger pieces making sickly _plunk-ing_ sounds as you did so.

                “It doesn’t take a mage to practice alchemy. I’m rather familiar with it actually.”

                He wrinkled his pointed nose in disgust, and perhaps…was that a _sneer_ you saw? “That…looks abhorrent.”

                “Oh, it is,” you agreed with a jovial nod. “Tastes worse, but it’ll turn you invisible at the drop of a hat. More or less.”

                Solas motioned towards the vial, “It looks like it was brewed in a cauldron!” You had to stifle a laugh at that, because it was just _such a stereotypical picture_ , the masked little Altmeri witch cackling while toiling over a bubbling cauldron of some strange miasmic concoction. But then you had to admit that it _was_ made in a cauldron, and your humor deflated some.

                Suddenly self-conscious, you shoved the length of glass back into your pack. “Er, it was. I don’t actually have an alembic anymore. It got broken a few years ago, and I never got around to…‘ _acquiring_ ’ a replacement.” And by “ _acquire_ ”, both you and Solas knew that you most likely meant “ _steal_ ”, or at least “ _obtain by highly suspicious means_ ”. Thankfully (or maybe not-so-thankfully), the elf didn’t show any care over the legal technicalities of ownership.

                “It’s amazing your potions work at all.”

                Pausing, you considered this for a moment before responding. “I’ve found that if I’m careful enough, it’s more making sure I have the right _ingredients_ as opposed to the correct _equipment_. At this point, having a proper alembic would only serve to not make my potions so…” You scrunched your face up as you searched for a term.

                Solas raised a brow and offered, “Discordant?”

                “Yeah, I guess that’s one way to put it. I was going more for ‘ _terrifying_ ’, but ‘ _discordant_ ’ works, too,” you smirked.

                “Actually,” he said in the driest voice, “I rescind my statement. I believe ‘ _terrifying_ ’ better suits the image.”

                You rolled your eyes. “Hardy-har-har. Very funny. You still didn’t answer my question.”

                His entire façade seemed to almost deflate with agitation. “Why are you so interested?” _Since when were you reluctant to lecture?_ The thought firmly collided with the filter between your brain and your mouth labeled “ _Don’t Poke the Grouchy Elf Any More than Necessary Lest He Decide You Look Better as a Pile of Ash_ ”.

                Instead, you wrinkled up your nose. “Because I’m curious what you could possibly be making that would cause it to smell like lemongrass and _death_.”

                Whatever response you were expecting, it wasn’t a furrowing brow and spark of sheer confusion behind his usually guarded eyes. It took half a second longer for him to speak, which for Solas was saying something. “You can actually smell the components?” It was you turn to look confused.

                “Er, yes? Why? Should I not be able to?” Internally, you were panicking a bit, trying to figure out a valid reason for why you being able to smell an herb as pungent as ground lemongrass could be abnormal. Your brain was drawing a blank, and that was bad because it also meant you couldn’t think of excuses.

                A sudden though decided to pry its way in, unbidden. “Wait, _components_? How is _death_ a component?”

                “No,” he answered, and you childishly felt slighted at the lack of acknowledgement of your last question. “I’m making a type of sleeping draught. One that has no discernible scent.” Solas’ tenor was far too grave for your liking, the tone too muddled with questions to which you would never give straight answers. If your own response was just as riddled with guilt, well, no one commented.

                “I…have a good nose?” _That_ was what your whirling brain decided to pick? _Mara have mercy_ , it was a wonder you’d survived your entire thirty-four years…

                Solas made a strange hum in the back of his throat, but you knew it wasn’t one of acceptance of your answer. He was accepting that you were going to deflect the question and was, calculatingly, deciding to let you drop it. For now. The elf was far from stupid, and there was a reason you tended to try and _avoid_ him around Haven other than him being a mage. He was astute. _Too_ astute, and it terrified you on some level because as easily as it felt that he could read _you_ , _you_ had barely been able to read _him_. Couple that with the fact that something about the elf just made you generally uncomfortable and fidget-y, he turned the tables on their heads and you did _not_ know how to deal with it.

                So instead, you clumsily juggled the problem and made a fool out of yourself every time the pieces knocked into your head. _Smooth, Lys. Real smooth._

                And you only dwelled on it for a moment because something the elf had uttered wedged firmly in your brain and refused to leave. “You said _sleeping draught_?” You pursed your lips. “Did Trevelyan put you up to this?”

                “He said you hadn’t been sleeping,” Solas replied, “and asked if I could help. I was under the impression he had spoken with you about it.”

                “I _am_ sleeping,” you growled, suddenly realizing why he’d been unwilling to divulge what the potion was for. “Also, I told him I’m fine and he didn’t need to go sticking his nose where it doesn’t belong.”

                Solas quirked a brow. “He did not seem to share your disregard. He appeared quite worried.”

                “While I _appreciate_ the sentiment,” your voice practically dripped with contempt. You did not appreciate it. “He doesn’t have a reason to be. I don’t know what he thought to accomplish by asking for your help with a problem that he neither has nor understands.”

                "I will admit to being curious myself," he mused, choosing to ignore your obvious ire. "The Herald mentioned something of nightmares?"

You crossed your arms like a petulant child trying to avoid a lecture you knew you had no hope of dodging. "Yes, yes, nightmares keep me awake. I've dealt with them for years without any prying, and I _don't want to talk about it_."

"I only ask because nightmares are often spurred by demons in the Fade, or at least draw demons to the dreamer." Solas was giving you that uncomfortable glower that seemed to see right through you. "If they are recurring, it could mean that a particular entity has taken an interest in you."

You wanted to scoff. " _Particular entity_ ", indeed. _It_ was probably having a grand old time laughing at you from...wherever _It_ was. "No. They're not _recurring_. And I hardly see why a _demon_ would find me interesting. I'm not a mage." _Lies, lies, lies, lies..._

Solas nodded. "True, however even ordinary people are at risk for attracting spirits as they sleep. It was still a possibility and a danger that I could not discount." You frowned, mulling the idea over. While any nightmares that repeated themselves tended not to even be dreams at all, the other memories you sometimes relived in your sleep _were_ inherently terrifying, ones you tried to bury far in your subconscious, and you couldn't deny that you'd wondered before about them possibly being the work of a demon. After all, it wasn't as if you'd done anything to warrant Vaermina trying to torment you, and even then you questioned how well your mind could be pulled into the Quagmire through Thedas' magic. As far as you had tried to guess, what Thedas called the Fade, Nirn had called the Dreamsleeve. And you dreamt there just as anyone. How susceptible to possession or torment you were with your Daedric magic, however, you didn't know. There really was no way of finding out, either, unless a Thedosian mage agreed to help you out with an experiment, and there was no way in the sixteen realms you were about to let _that_ happen.

"I wasn't aware non-mages _could_ attract spirits in the Fade," you half-lied, trying to change the subject. You'd heard it bandied around that spirits tended to help spur dreams along, but you’d always thought it more them molding the dreamscape, not being drawn to the dreamer.

Your ignorance didn’t matter in the end, though, as Solas’ eyes lit up at the prospect of explaining something Fade related, and you considered the subject well and thoroughly changed with no small measure of relief.


	16. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Lys' horse is too smart for his own good, an unintentional ambush occurs, there's some falling down a hill, and some secrets become not-so-secret.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I...hate myself a little for this chapter. It felt right, but also rushed and almost cliched. Meh.
> 
> I also need to give a shout-out to my awesome mom. There's some instances of broken bones and, since Lys is a healer and I hate my squeamish self for some reason, I decided that I needed to describe it a bit (it's not too graphic, I promise). My mom, being a nurse, helped me with some of the probably very stupid questions I had...like whether or not it would be possible for a broken femur to sever the femoral artery...yeah...I'm a history major for a reason.
> 
> Enjoy!

" _We are so accustomed to disguise ourselves to others, that in the end, we become disguised to ourselves._ "

\- François de La Rochefoucauld

* * *

_**~Thedas – 9:41 Dragon~** _

* * *

**Three days**. It had been three days since Alan and Sera had left for Haven, and they had been very boring days, indeed. The brush in your hand glided along the flank of the reddish-colored rig you had affectionately taken to calling Saffron, grooming the horse about the only thing you had to do with your time. He huffed and pawed at the ground with a hoof, but the action was mellow and meant to convey contentment, not displeasure.

Initially, you'd chosen Saffron out of the small selection Dennet had offered you because you'd thought him to be a gelding and those tended to be easier to manage, less fiery. It wasn't until he'd attempted to buck you off for a third time in ten minutes and the horsemaster had started to laugh that you began to question it. The look on Dennet's face when he admitted the horse had the abnormality had been nothing short of amused, and yours had been anything but. Still, while you didn't really _like_ working with stallions, or horses in general, you had before and knew how. The rig may have appeared a gelding, but he clearly had stallion tendencies, evidenced by not only his general temperament, but also how he'd blatantly attack Alan's stallion if they got within ten feet of one another. It was only one incident, but you'd studiously kept Saffron away from Crackerjack, Sera's gelding Arrow (a true one, this time), and _definitely_ kept him far from Solas' mare, Theneras.

It had taken the entire trip back to Haven after recruiting Dennet to wrangle Saffron into submission. By some miracle, however, you'd managed it with the help of sugar cubes, a carrot, and what had to have been a bucketful of apples. You'd somehow struck an accord with the lumbering beast, and that was good enough. He could eat Crackerjack for all you cared as long as he wasn't launching you to the ground every three minutes.

Distracted as you were, you must have managed to brush too hard or in some way your horse didn't like, as Saffron decided to give a loud snort and knock his head into your chest. You yelped in a manner quite undignified as you were shoved back a few feet—he had _not_ been gentle. "Oi, _watch it_! I'll just _leave_ all this dirt on you if you keep it up. Then where will you be?" If horses could raise eyebrows, you were sure yours would have been. The look Saffron had was almost _daring_.

You glared right back. "I will. Don't tempt me. I can survive if you've got a bit of dust on you; no skin off my back." Suddenly, you were quite glad Solas had wandered away from camp for whatever reason and wasn't there to witness your bought of weird. Scolding a _horse_ —oh how the mighty hath fallen.

Saffron snorted again, doe-brown eyes sharing another incredulous look before he swung his head back around to face forward. His black mane smacked you in the mask as he did so, however, and you sputtered angrily as you waved it away. " _Really?_ " He didn't answer—because _of course he didn't_ —and kept staring ahead, apparently mollified, but you knew better. Had he been _not_ a horse, he'd have been smirking. It was unnerving. Were horses always that intelligent, or did you just pick the strange one?

Glowering, you tossed the bush aside with a huff. " _Fine_. If you don't like my grooming, then you can suffer. _I'm_ going for a _walk_." Sticking your nose in the air, you turned on your heel and headed in a southern direction chosen at random. You got maybe twenty paces away, at the base of the hill camp was situated on, before you realized with a start that Saffron was happily clip-clopping along behind you. You whirled around on the horse, hands on your hips and eyes mimicking the narrowness of your mask.

"And just _what_ are you doing?" A sound like a snicker was his response.

You waved your hands in a shooing motion. "No. Go away. I said _I'm_ going on a walk, not _we're_ going on a walk. You're being a right arse—I want nothing to do with you at the moment. Now, shoo!" Two steps and a head-butt landed on your shoulder, milder than the previous one but still staggering.

"Will you _quit that_? I said no!" A stamped hoof was followed by Saffron moving to stand defiantly beside you.

You growled, "Go away!" The rig's head turned towards you, teeth lashing out to give you a _not gentle_ bite on your arm. Jerking your arm away with a gasp, more of shock than pain, really, you smacked your horse on his flank and flung your hand angrily back towards camp.

" _No!_ " He reared up about a foot in response, actually neighing loudly and wildly shaking his head once his hooves slammed back onto the ground.

It caused you to take a half step back out of surprise. You crossed your arms. "This is not the way to get more apples out of me, you know. Quite counter-productive. You'd be better off doing what I say instead of being a rebellious little brat." There wasn't any response, but you were sure Saffron was continuing to stare you down with whatever ghost of a look was on his face (probably the incredulous one from earlier, if you had to guess). This continued for several minutes, and probably would have gone on longer had the leg bearing most of your weight not twinged in threat of cramping. At that, you finally sighed and threw your hands up.

"Oh, _fine_. If you get lost, I'm not looking for you."

His look as you took his lead almost came off as smug, practically screaming, ' _No, you won't because then you'll be out a mount._ '

You stomped onward, muttering under your breath in a mix of common and Altmeri about stupid horses who were too smart for their own damned good, and why in Oblivion did you have to pick _them_ out of a bloody dozen?

Almost as an afterthought, you grumbled an aside to your horse, "Oh, and you're _so_ not getting an apple out of this. Not even a slice." He snorted, affronted. You'd probably still give him a carrot or something, but let him think he was going completely treat-less. Maybe then he'd learn not to be such a stubborn ox of a rig.

And you immediately shook _that_ thought out of your head. Good gods, Saffron was a _horse_ and you were treating him like he was a person. You'd been too long with intelligent company—you were starting to impress a personality on an animal when finally faced with solitude.

You traipsed on for a good twenty minutes, tugging Saffron along whenever he decided a particular sprig of bush or patch of grass looked like a tasty snack, which happened more often than you cared for. The hills rose and fell irregularly, making the terrain that much more difficult since you'd foregone any roads. Your horse didn't seem to be having as much trouble with it as you'd thought, aside from snacking, which did surprise you on some level. The horses bred in Ferelden were rugged, you knew, to withstand how varied the country could be—from Frostbacks to Wilds to Coast. You had to commend Dennet for his skill in breeding the beasts—some of the crags and rocks you were dragging Saffron up would have tripped a Reach horse. And the Reach had been home to some of the worst terrain you'd ever come across.

Still, he was handling the hills remarkably well as he followed your descent down one of the more craggy slopes, albeit at a bit slower pace. Even so, you eyed an area where the hill formed a plateau big enough for the two of you and figured that'd be as good a place to stop as any. Much as you liked hiking as you were (it reminded you of Skyrim and better days), it was tiring.

"Here we are," you mumbled, taking up Saffron's lead again in order to help him down the last bit of slope. He followed as demurely as you'd ever seen him, ears flicking this way and that with every birdcall. You tried to help him drink as best you could from your canteen but probably did more to water the hill than your horse.

Sometime during all of this, the reddish horse started shifting about, nervous for some reason or another. Your brow furrowed as you did a quick listen of your surroundings but found nothing out of the ordinary. It wasn't _entirely_ odd—maybe he didn't like the height now that he was getting a stationary moment to look at it, it wouldn't have been the first time one of your horses did that. When you couldn't calm him, you started getting a little curious, but full-blown worry set in when the proffered sugar cube you'd fished from a pocket got turned down.

"What's wrong now?" you meant to ask, but you only got about half of it out when Saffron suddenly reared up as high on his hind legs as he could go, bellowing loudly. Startled, you could only stumble for balance on the tiny ledge before one of his descending hooves caught you in the back and sent you careening down the rocky hill. A shriek was pulled from you as you bounced and rolled down the stones, momentum too much at that point to do anything more than try to go with the flow to avoid as much of the damage as you could. You vaguely, very, very, _very_ vaguely heard something thud between the rocks amidst your own clamor and the ruckus Saffron was still making before the ground suddenly dropped out from under you.

The fall had to have only been eight, maybe nine feet, but it hit you without warning. You cried out at the brief sensation of weightlessness before being once again slammed into the ground, back right corner of your head cracking on some type of flat stone so hard you felt the world tilt. More of Saffron's braying and skittering hoofbeats down the hill floated to your ears, thought it sounded almost like it was filtering through water and you attributed it to your swimming head.

Something else hit your ears, too. It was shouting, _human_ shouting in a harsh Free Marcher accent, and you froze trying to listen. The word _lyrium_ hit you like the rocks that still dropped around you, the scrape of plate armor chasing hooves following after. Templars. Saffron was being chased by Templars, you realized as the galloping and neighing began to fade with more distance your horse traveled, leading them away from your impromptu hiding place. What you'd heard hitting the rocks as you fell was probably an arrow. How you hadn't been aware of them before was beyond you, but you wondered if your horse's fright had saved your life in your carelessness.

You were partially on your side, and your right arm was twisted under you at an awkward angle you were just then realizing was actually quite painful. Stifling a groan, you let the palm of your other hand rest on the ground, trying to get a sense of where you were.

The first thing your perpetually blurry "vision" saw was a jagged outline of light amidst black above you. What looked to be the tendrils of branches also covered half of the gap. The rest seemed like the rocky walls of a cave, but the floor you were laying on, while cracked and overgrown with some weeds and vines, was very deliberate and obviously not natural. You didn't dare try moving just yet to see what was behind you, but from the way a rock falling into your little prison echoed, there was a tunnel leading away from where you had landed.

It seemed you'd hit the opening to this…whatever it was, cavern, in just the right way so as to fall through it. Of all the million-in-one things for your luck to have picked, it was this? You wanted to smack your head onto the ground again just out of exasperation.

Silence reigned for a few more minutes before you deigned that you were, one, alone in the cave and two, that the Templars and Saffron were long gone from aboveground. With that, you carefully pushed yourself into a sitting position, realizing that not only had your hip and shoulder taken the brunt of the landing, but also that your right arm was probably broken. When a breeze touched your face, you also noticed your hood was torn and mask was missing. Panic gripped you when you looked around frantically, only to find the ironbark nowhere in sight.

It must have fallen off as you were bouncing your merry (painful) way down the hill.

No.

No, no, no, no. Bad. This was very, very, very bad.

Sucking in a deep breath, you pushed the gut reaction down before it could manifest too much. Yes, losing your mask was a bad thing, but you had other problems to wrestle before you worried about that. Like how you were going to get out of here. You eyed the ceiling entrance skeptically. There was no way of knowing how stable the edges really were, even if you could grasp them. Which you couldn't. You were about 5'4", 5'5", and the ceiling, now that you got a good look at it, was closer to ten feet.

Magic wasn't an option, either, not with those Templars so close. They'd feel it in an instant, at least the strangeness of it. Also, you didn't know any levitation spells and didn't like experimenting with your magic.

Your head was also killing you, you winced. Not good for concentration. It was probably a concussion, but like with levitation, you couldn't risk healing it or your arm without alerting the Templars.

So how were you going to get out of here? Forcing your aching body to turn in the other direction, you squinted and noticed that you were right in that there was a tunnel leading off of the chamber you'd fallen into. Except…you squinted more…was that torchlight? You froze for a second time with the realization that you were not, contrary to your initial observation, alone down in the cave.

Well, shit.

At least the lack of anyone running into the chamber when you'd fallen meant that no one appeared to have heard you. And if you were lucky, the tunnel might have a way out. With that, you began to heave yourself to your feet, difficult to do with a broken arm and sore hip, but you managed to get onto your knees, though heavily favoring your right side from the hip. Left foot, push up, right leg down, and—

" _Ah!_ " you yelped before you could stop yourself as searing pain you hadn't noticed before thanks to adrenaline raced up your right thigh and down past your knee. A wet crunch sounded followed by the grinding of bone on bone as you fell back down onto your left knee. Nausea not entirely due to the concussion washed over you from it. Femur. That had been your femur. Probably had a partial fracture from the fall and then weight bearing finished it off, you self-diagnosed, fighting dry-heaves.

Forcing yourself into sitting properly, you choked back a hiss as you straightened your right leg out in front of you. It was already swelling, so you drew a dagger with your left hand and cut the fabric of your pants at your thigh away to avoid constriction. Taking a brief moment of consideration, you bit your right glove off and repeated the action with your sleeve, noting with some relief that the fracture there, ulna if you had to guess, at least wasn't compound.

You let the barest trickle of magic run through you, for diagnostic purposes. It wouldn't be noticed unless someone was looking for it (which you belatedly realized any Templar would be—you just hoped they were too far away to notice by then), but enough for you to realize that neither break was too bad. Your femur was cracked through, but while it was a diagonal break, it could have been much worse. Your ulna had a fragment broken off of it close to the elbow, but it was an easy fix with some magic once you felt comfortable enough to do so.

Your concussion was what worried you. Magic while concussed was never a good idea, and yours wasn't a mild one. As with the breaks, it could have been worse, but it wasn't good. Without it, you'd be okay with risking enough healing to be able to fight. You couldn't walk with your leg like it was, and any fighting would be hindered as it was with your arm. The dizziness from the concussion didn't help anything.

Sitting duck was what you were, and you cursed under your breath, eyeing the tunnel warily. If anyone was down there, which the torchlight indicated…

…but you didn't have your mask…

…your skin was blatantly on display, gold and abnormal…

If they weren't hostile outright, then they very easily could _turn_ hostile by looking at you. It wasn't exactly dark enough to hide your face in the cavern thanks to the sunlight spilling through the ceiling.

A groan passed your lips that sounded more like a pained whimper as you tilted your head back, _done_ with the day and very much just wanting to go back to camp and go to sleep. As you let yourself wallow in self-pity, however, clopping reached your ears from above you. Your eyes snapped open as snorting that could only belong to a horse permeated the quiet before a rock was jarred from the opening on the ceiling. Could it…?

"…Saffron…?" you tried, voice hoarse and a bit slurred from a combination of pain and dizziness. Wincing, you attempted calling out again, a little stronger this time. "Saffron!"

"Who's down there?" a rough voice you didn't recognize called back, and you felt your blood turn to ice. You heard a body dismount from the horse you'd heard, light armor with a sword jingling from a belt and a quiver of arrows. An archer. A Templar.

And another one, heavily armored, followed, five more sets of footsteps also sounding but a little farther away. "Well, looks like you weren't imagining things after all, Brecker."

"You heard that?" the first voice answered back. Free Marcher accent—this was the one that had been speaking when they were chasing Saffron. You clamped your mouth shut against the curses that wanted to spill from it, eyeing the shadows moving around the splotch of light on the ceiling. Any magic at all would be noticed with how close they were. You couldn't even cast an invisibility spell. Or a healing spell. Or any spell.

 _Shit_. "Sitting duck" didn't even begin to cover it. You gripped your dagger a little tighter. It wasn't much, but at least it was _something_ , you thought as another wave of nausea set you awash with dizziness.

Seven of them. Four in heavy armor. At least one was a ranged fighter. You couldn't take them. You couldn't hide.

"Aye," the second voice said. "There's someone down there, alright."

Brecker snorted. "Someone ought to go down." Your breath caught. No. No one ought to come down. Everyone just needed to stay right where they were topside. Out of your cave.

There was a brief argument that you only half paid attention to as it became apparent that these Templars fully intended to investigate the fissure you were hiding in. As an armored leg was lowered through the crag, you scrambled back into what shadows there were, dagger gripped tight and back firmly pressed to a damp stone wall.

All too soon, there were three armed men lowered into the cave, not having noticed you yet only because their backs were turned. But that would change quickly. One was in light armor with a bow and sword, probably this Brecker person. He had red hair, you noticed absently, and it shone like liquid fire in the sunlight. The other two were glinting monstrosities in heavy plate typical to the Order, helmed and shielded as was the stereotype. Except…was that red on their armor? You squinted, trying to figure out why they'd changed the uniforms. Necessity, perhaps?

Then one of them shuffled to face you, and you were physically taken aback. No, the red wasn't an adornment. It was much, much, much worse. A deformed and diseased face grinned at you from under the helm as it (you weren't going to dignify giving the thing in front of you a gender—that was admitting it was human when it was anything but) noticed you huddled against the wall.

"Ah, found her." The voice was scratchy and distorted, not normal and not right. It sent shivers down your spine that had nothing to do with the coolness of the stone. Lyrium-addled eyes then narrowed, drinking in your appearance. "Hmm. Not sure what she is. Think we found ourselves an abomination, boys." The other two then turned as well, and they also had red lyrium growing out of them and melting to their skin, corrupting them. Brecker seemed a bit better off, though not by much.

Deciding to throw caution to the wind, you unleashed your magic just enough to try mimicking what Solas did to form a barrier, except with your Daedric magic instead of Aedric. It worked well enough for a first try, enough like the wards you were used to casting that it didn't give you too much trouble. Magic slithered across your skin, shimmering and slower than you wanted it to be while still getting the job done.

It threw them for a loop, if nothing else. The Templar who'd noticed you first swore under his breath, eyes wide. You rasped, "Stay back." A pitiful line, but they were derailed enough from your magic not to retaliate.

"Shit, what is it?" the one who hadn't spoken yet asked. _Right back at you, ugly_ , you wanted to scream, but you kept quiet. A spell was already primed in your hand, ready to be cast at a moment's notice. Dim light from the orb lit your face, which might have been what the Templar was referring to. Or it could have been the feel of your magic. Or maybe you were banged up more than you thought you were. You didn't care.

Brecker knocked an arrow. "Dunno. We can find out after we kill it. Zen, get your arses down here!" More armored figures dropped into the cave at that. You swore, only briefly rethinking the spell before you once again decided to throw caution to the wind and cast it anyway.

The summoning orb crackled to life in front of you, materializing a particularly daunting frost atronach. As soon as the daedroth was set on its rampage, you called another spell to your hand, this one restoration, and poured a burst of magicka into your thigh. You were rusty. It'd been a while since you'd had to heal a break of this magnitude on yourself or even use so much magic in general, and it combined with the conjuration spell drained you quicker than you thought it would. The bone wasn't completely healed, but it would hold for now. It would have to, you thought as you hefted yourself to your feet just in time to block a blow from a Templar sword.

Steel scraped against glass and you couldn't throw him off without risking the dagger, which was already creaking dangerously. The atronach had fizzled after taking most of the Templars with him, only the one attacking you and one other were left. Magic lingered in the air, bitter conjuration and burnt restoration, along with the clean smell of a Templar smite, though this one was a little too…ragged. Whether the atronach had fallen due to injury or dispel, you hadn't been paying enough attention to tell. It would have been nice to know if Templar abilities affected your magic.

"Demon summoning witch," the Templar sneered, bearing down more on his sword. "Attacking you on sight was the right call. Think I'll take you alive, though. That magic of yours might interest the Elder One." Your leg was screaming at you and your barrier backfired as you tried to re-cast it, fizzling out as soon as it was in place. _Concussion,_ you remembered. _Casting is unpredictable with a concussion_.

Unseen, your right hand painfully snaked into a pouch for a throwing knife. If you could angle it just right… In an attempt to keep attention off of what you were doing, you hissed. "Might interest _who_?" The Templar grinned through rotted teeth, the look positively manic.

"A god, bound to walk the earth. His ascension will mean the coming of a new age."

"Why bother?" you managed. "I mean, the godhood thing sounds pretty sweet, but if he doesn't like the current age, it'll be a new one in fifty-nine years anyway. Granted, dunno what it might be called with the Divine being a pile of ash…"

More weight was added to the sword bearing down on you, and your jaw snapped shut with a click. "Silence! His motives are beyond the scope of your—"

Whatever your captor was going to say melded into a shocked gargle as a small throwing knife slid between the plates of his reddened armor and right between his ribs. Your cry of pain was anticlimactic at the use of your broken arm, but the Knight's slackened grip gave you the opportunity to throw the sword off of you and pitch the Templar towards his startled comrade. It wasn't a killing blow. But it gave you some time.

 _Or not_. You screeched when the heft of a shield was bashed into your back. The second Templar had recovered from his shock quicker than you'd anticipated. You dropped like a rock from the blow, dagger flying wide as you landed on your front and barely managed to roll out of the way as a blade glanced off of the stone where your head had just been.

Reaching awkwardly with your left hand for your second dagger, you didn't get a chance to draw it before the sword was at your throat, pressing into the torn fabric and ripping it even more. Behind your attacker stood the first knight, eyes ablaze as he gripped the knife you'd struck him with at his side. The blade was dripping with blood that was redder than it should have been. You looked at it, transfixed with equal amounts of fascination and horror. _Were they ingesting red lyrium? Or was it corrupting them that thoroughly?_

Defiant, you called the last of your magika to the surface and flung it out before either Templar could react to stop it. The icy spike, a spell you'd always had trouble with, for once flew true and impaled the warrior with the blade at your throat straight through his unarmored face. He fell with a resounding crash.

Bellowing came from the first Templar. There was nothing you could do aside from watch as he drew the hand holding your knife back, preparing to throw it, when he was…suddenly encased in ice thanks to a burst of familiar, oppressive magic, fabric of which being entirely too foreign for comfort so long as your own still hung loose in the air.

Despite this, you didn't give pause to think about it, instead harnessing the opportunity by quickly scooping up the fallen Templar's sword and giving as good a one armed strike to the frozen knight as you could. It thankfully was enough to shatter him into hundreds of bloody, frosty chunks. You winced. Somehow that was gorier than the spike to the face.

The sound of a staff tip being set to the ground caused you to turn, wary of if this newcomer would be friend or foe, though you were rather sure it was the former. You were a dead woman if it were the latter.

"… _Lethallan_ …?" soft spoken though the word was, there was no mistaking it. Dread bubbled and you were sure you paled several shades.

"Solas." Swallowing down the rising lump of terror in your throat, you relaxed your stance and allowed yourself to cradle your screaming arm to your chest. "How did you find me?"

He tried walking a few steps towards you, but you countered by taking as many back. He seemed to get the message and remained where he was. "I was making my way back to camp when I came across your horse. He was frenzied and eventually led me here."

You were shocked. "Saffron? He _led_ you here?"

"You have a rather intelligent horse, it would seem. Keen on protecting his mistress, too." He jerked his chin at your arm. "Are you injured?"

Furrowing your brow, you nodded. Why was he not saying anything? You could only imagine what he was seeing—beyond the otherworldly skin color, sharp features, and blind eyes the filmy pigment of mint, you were sure you were bruised and swollen something fierce, clothing ripped and what armor you wore little more than scuffed leather. Your hair, a few shades paler than your skin, had fallen out of the short tail you liked to keep it in, hanging around your chin in something attempting to be waves but not with enough length to do so properly, absolutely disheveled and probably bloody. Why he wasn't just attacking you, assuming abomination…

"My arm's broken," you said slowly. "I broke my thigh falling, but it's…better. Concussion."

"Better?" You could hear the risen eyebrow in his voice and wanted to take back the words you'd spoken. "You mean you healed it?"

You stiffened, the reaction automatic. "No."

Solas' disbelief was palpable. "Do not lie to me, _da'len_. Those bodies were all killed by ice, by magic, not blades." Ouch. "Little child"? Solas could pull off patronizing like it was nobody's business.

Deflating with a sigh, your good hand ran its way through your hair. "Yes. I healed it. Mostly. I think it's still bruised." He motioned towards it casually. _Why wasn't he attacking you?_

"I can look at it, if you wish."

Blinking at him owlishly, the option was considered thoroughly before you remembered the burning sensation his healing magic had caused when he'd helped Alan after stabilizing the Breach. You quickly shook your head. "No. I…don't think it would work."

Now he was curious. "What makes you say that?"

"Because," you shifted awkwardly. "Thedosian magic… You felt me casting, yes? When I hit that last Templar?"

"I did."

"How'd it feel to you? My magic?"

Realization seemed to dawn on the elf. "Oppressive. I had difficulty with my own spell in such close proximity…I see."

"You're…," you paused, unsure, but you pushed through your thought anyway, "less upset than I thought you'd be…"

The staff casually switched hands. "Something was off about you from the start, _lethallan_. This just explains it."

"Don't call me that," you moaned as you meandered back over to the stone wall, sidestepping bodies, and sunk to the ground. "I'm not elven, at least not like you seem to think."

"What are you, then?" he asked, entirely too calm for the situation and you realized then that he was trying not to spook you. Now the only question was if he was doing so for your sake or his?

You shook your spinning head and leaned it against the wall. "Does it even matter? I'm the only one left, far as I know."

" _As far as you know_ ," parroted the mage, and you sent him a sharp look. "That does not mean there _can't_ be others, and the information is good to have." He proceeded to tentatively kneel next to you and, with your permission, began inspecting your broken arm.

"I have a feeling you'd be fully aware if there were more of us. We don't normally cohabitate very well." Grumbling under your breath, you gave a defeated sigh. "The correct term is ' _Altmer_ ', though ' _High Elf'_ was a common translation. Yes, they all look like me, too. Well, mostly. We're usually a bit taller."

A sharp twist caught you off guard, and you yelped. Chipped bone slid back into place with a grinding click, and what little magika had managed to sluggishly regenerate itself automatically trickled through to begin mending the damage. In the dankness of the cavern, you were sure the slight honey-colored glow from the latent, unconscious spell made the angles of your faces all the more dramatic as you glared at Solas through a pained wince.

"Was that really necessary?" He gave a fluid shrug in response as he continued prodding at your arm from wrist to elbow, either trying to check for more injuries or inspect your restoration magic. Probably both.

"Had I not, then the bone would have failed to heal properly on its own." Your eyebrow twitched, but you kept your mouth shut. If Solas didn't want to give a straight answer, then you weren't going to get one. _Blasted elf just wanted to see what my magic would do, I'll bet—this was a bad idea_. As soon as the thought passed, you scoffed. You hadn't really been given much choice on this one, you'd concede.

Solas motioned his thin hands to your eyes as he ran spindly fingers along your skull to check the damage there. "Are all of your people blind?" The wince had nothing to do with him hitting a sore patch of scalp and more involved slit noses and overgrown patches where irises should have been.

"No," you muttered. "I'm not…entirely blind, though. It's a complicated situation—let's just leave it there."

"You cannot heal it?"

You tried to shake your head, but a firm glower and equally firm hold on your head to remind you of your concussion kept you still. "Not with anything I've tried, no. Regardless, it's been eleven years. I'm used to it, and if I haven't found anything by now then maybe I'm just not meant to."

He hummed. The elf obviously had questions, but your desire not to elaborate on your blindness was one he apparently was willing to respect. You breathed a sigh of relief, not exactly having felt up to explaining Nirn and a Godhead who probably belonged in a sanitarium with someone who undoubtedly felt like _you_ belonged in a sanitarium. "Where are you from?"

You wilted. _Fuck you, Solas,_ the little voice of despair in the back of your head screamed.

"Not…," you floundered for a valid response, something not too much of a lie but also not too much of the truth. Jaw hinged and unhinged gracelessly as your mind worked a mile a minute. "Not Thedas?" As soon as the words left your mouth, you flinched and darted your blurry gaze to look anywhere but the elf. _Too much, too much—abort! Backtrack! Open mouth, insert foot!_ If only you could.

The look he gave you— _oh the look he gave you_ —was sharp. You probably could have sheared diamonds with it had you the means and desire. As for your own eyes, they were firmly fixed somewhere over his shoulder, and there was no doubt that this failed to escape his notice. Solas lowered his hands from where they had been gently prodding your skull, gaze on you the entire time.

"Is that so?"

He was quiet. _Fuck_ , he was quiet, and quiet Solas was either smug or curious or angry or a dangerous mix of all three. You didn't even want to think of what was probably spinning through his clever little mind right then. Maybe he was thinking you meant the Fade? No, that was dismissed rather quickly. The man knew the Fade and its denizens like the back of his hand; there was no way in Oblivion he would have missed it if you were, and you knew that he was fully aware of it. So the only plausible explanation remaining as to the question of _where_ that he could possibly land on would be the truth—another world somehow—and that meant that Solas was probably trying to come up with theories on _how_ you'd gotten to Thedas, not _where_ you were from.

"Yes, it…" The pained expression that flitted across your face didn't really have to be faked. "Nirn is…gone. I woke up here in Fereldan, actually. Can we not…? Please?"

The elf's expression softened considerably, something akin to either sympathy or pity seeming to stick for a moment. It took you aback briefly. You had expected reluctant acquiescence, not…empathy. Made you wonder just what experience of his he could possibly relate so strongly, so _painfully_ to your world being gone and dead and buried. "I— _ir abelas_ , _lethallan_. How long ago was this?"

You shook your head. "Nothing correlates. I've already looked, but it was eleven years ago, at the onset of the Blight. I woke disoriented, and the Dalish clan I've mentioned found me. Luckily, they didn't shoot on sight and instead took me northward with them. Without them, I'd likely be dead."

Solas only said dryly, "It appears to correlate with the loss of your sight, if I recall correctly." He was avoiding any mention to do with the Dalish again, you thought with no small level of amusement. It was either avoid or unabashedly insult with him—there was no happy medium.

"My vision I believe to be more of a side effect, if nothing else." You glanced around the cavern pointedly. "Much as I absolutely adore this subtle interrogation, do you think we could find some way out of here first? I doubt it's a good idea to leave camp unattended for this long." A moment passed where your words sunk in, but once they did, Solas was chuckling and moving to stand. Offering a hand, the elf pulled you to your feet without jostling your mostly mended arm.

"Of course. My apologies; it seems I forgot myself. You are right, however. Do you have any ideas on _how_ to leave?" Haphazardly, you gestured towards the tunnel. He didn't mention if he'd noticed the torchlight before, but he still studied the clear path with consideration etched onto his face. An ear twitched, and his stance shifted a couple of times before he nodded warily.

He admitted, "I suppose it as good an option as any. Probably better than trying to exit the way we came in." Something sparkled like humor behind his eyes, and it was a welcome change from sharp questions.

"Yes," you scoffed. "Much as I don't want to, I agree. There're probably people that way, though. I can't promise they'll be friendly to me." Sending him a pointed look, you gestured loosely to your face. "I lost my mask on the way down."

Solas shrugged as if it was of little consequence, and briefly considering how calculating he could be, you supposed it was to whatever plan he was concocting in his mind. "You're adept at staying hidden when you wish it, and we can always search for it later once we're out of here. It may be abandoned, we don't know." The placation was blatant and caused you to purse your lips, but irritation was only mild and you appreciated the gesture for what it was. You…weren't in the soundest state, pained as that admittance made you. With your mask, you'd become lax in schooling your features to the indifference most associated with Altmer. If the anxiety _hadn't_ shown, you'd be amazed.

With little time wasted, the two of you cautiously crept towards the mouth of the tunnel. A gesture to show that you were going to remain behind the mage was thankfully all the notice Solas needed, and you hugged the natural curve of the rock in order to take advantage of the shadows the crevasses tended to throw. You made sure to keep several feet back, letting him act as a signal. There was enough magika seeping back into your reserves for an invisibility spell, since you didn't have a potion, but it was only enough for one. No chances could be taken—casting and then hoping you were recharged enough for a second one when the first fizzled out was not an option you were comfortable enough taking.

And you wanted to keep _some_ secrets close to you, you thought with a sour look to the back of the elf's head. He'd managed to weasel too many of them loose in too short a time span for comfort.

When Solas suddenly pulled up short, you were ready, having vaguely heard the footsteps of a patrol and seen the hazy shifting of light being thrown about the hall. A hand snatching the mage's shoulder stopped him from darting into the room headlong as he'd been preparing to do. Narrow steel blue eyes watched you curiously as you signaled for him to remain quiet and readied your spell. He was entranced with a scholar's fascination that amused you to no end as the invisibility consumed you in a wash of Daedric magic that you weren't afraid or ashamed of using for the first time in eleven years.

That thought actually hit you like a solid punch to the gut, but you shoved it aside to process later. Dwelling on it would get you killed; compartmentalizing would save you to fight another day if you were indeed walking and kicking your way into a hornet's nest.

Slipping past Solas and around the corner, you emerged into another cavern. This one was larger than the first, and you immediately took note of the smattering of bedrolls across the floor. You counted maybe six in all, all but one occupied to account for the pacing guard on the far end who was honestly doing his post a disservice.

It was strange, though. There were no tents, no fires aside from a few lanterns for some dim lighting as this particular chamber lacked a convenient hole in the ceiling, no infrastructure to the camp or any rhyme and reason to its layout. A table was shoved into a back corner with something large and mildly ostentatious atop it, but you couldn't make out the specifics.

A single guard, though, was telling. It meant that this group, whomever they were, though themselves tucked sufficiently away to not be stumbled upon (joke was on them, you supposed). Asleep during the day meant that they were active at night—spies? Recon? Were they mages, hiding from the active Templar patrols? And if so, how had they—

You realized the triggered rune a fraction of a second too late. Green fog spiraled up off of the floor after a loud, ominous cracking sound to twine though your legs and around your hips. Muscle spasms caught you for a moment, but you didn't have too long to worry about the familiar sulfur-and-green-apples smell and elastic feel of paralysis magic before Solas had casted a quick dispel. His magic as always felt jarring. Instead of the gentle prying you knew you should have experienced, your magika felt like a sharp razor had scraped away your skin in ribbons. It got rid of the paralysis (and your invisibility, but the noise of a triggered rune had given you away regardless), though you felt like you should have been bleeding. A lot.

The actual fight against the occupants of the cave was more of a blur. The guard had yelled something and others followed suit in flinging knives, arrows, and swords at yours and Solas' faces, but they went down surprisingly easy. And interestingly enough, none of them had been mages, begging the question of just what the rune had been doing there. Leftover from another occupant, maybe? One that these newcomers had exploited?

You pulled your single dagger (the other one had been forgotten in the first chamber) out of the chest cavity of the last body. It dropped without much care, but you didn't pay attention to it, face contorted in a scowl equal parts confusion and irritation. "What…the fuck?"

"Eloquent," quipped Solas sarcastically. You quickly copied him in beginning to rummage through the corpses for anything useful in identifying the…robed…whomever-s. They wore grey and orange getups that you couldn't place. It was eerie, though, because like your normal attire, not a patch of skin was visible on them.

You shook your head when you found nothing in the pockets you'd stuffed your hands into. "Appropriate, though. Did you see any of them casting spells? What was that rune doing there?"

"I did not," replied your companion with no small measure of frown in his voice. "However something did feel—" He suddenly and abruptly stopped talking. There was a beat of silence where you pulled your hands back from where they had been moving to search for more pockets, but before you could pronounce any clear question, you heard the elf stumble to his feet and back a few steps.

"Solas?"

"Get away from them." Solas' tenor was grave. You were obeying before you even fully registered the words simply by his tone alone. "Now."

You did so, though slower than he had. "What? Why? What's going on?"

"The reason they're covered so well. They are Blighted." Heart, have you met Stomach? Well, become better acquainted. And Blood? Head down away from Face and Head, will you? Ankles are lonely and a trifle cold. With dread. And terror.

" _Shit_ ," you cursed, barely catching yourself before running your hands through your messy hair and proceeding to hold the limbs awkwardly away from your person. "First those Templars with the lyrium, and now this? Are you…?"

He reassured almost too quickly, but he wasn't lying. "Fine, I've not been injured nor was I too close to them. You?"

"It's hard to say. I think I'm okay, but…," you winced, gesturing to a few scrapes along your exposed skin. There were no _obvious_ signs of blood not your own, but if there was even the slightest possibility some could have gotten on you…

It wasn't impossible or even improbable.

Something intangible prodded up against you. Though your first reaction was to jump and shy away, you recognized the intrusion as Solas after a few beats and forced yourself to relax the instinct to fight off the Aedric magic. It was clearly diagnostic despite its weighty discomfort, and you couldn't blame him for using magic unlike with your concussion. Blight was much more dangerous and the certainty could…well, maybe not save your life, but at least make its remainder a little more comfortable.

A few moments and several passes of magic later, he slumped a little with a heavy sigh. "I cannot find any signs of infection or sickness, but I am regrettably limited on knowledge of the effects. Especially given your…unique circumstances." _Unique circumstances_ being polite parlance for neither him nor you having the slightest idea of how your physiology would react to an invasive disease purely Thedosian in nature. It spawned another train of absent thought, though, and you tried to remember if you'd ever been sick since coming here…

"I'll let you know if anything changes. It's the best we can do, I think," you shrugged, hoping that if you acted nonchalant about it, you could convince your heart to migrate back to your chest cavity from where it had decided to sink down around your kneecaps. _There had been that stomach flu eight years ago, so you could get sick_ , you recalled as you returned to looting bodies despite some mild protests from Solas that you shouldn't be anywhere near them as each consecutive one showed heavy signs of infection. You refuted, citing that since you were already at risk for having contracted the stupid thing, then it was better you do it than him, who was in the clear. _Still can't eat sausages or eggs to this day, come to think of it._

You suddenly let out a groan of pure, unadulterated exasperation when tied around the neck of the dead, infected woman whose robes you riffling through was an orange stained pendant in the shape of a dragon. "Well, would you look at this? I think we found Alexius' ' _monks_ '." Ripping the leather free, you tossed it to Solas. He caught it deftly and shifted his hold on it to one of pure disgust laced with caution. The look he sent you felt far from pleasant.

"So it would seem." Sneering, he let the amulet drop to the ground. "I thought they were supposed to be in Redcliffe?"

You nodded. "I also thought they were supposed to be _mages_. And three times as many."

Solas' frown of confusion was a sour note hanging in the air only because it mimicked your own. "Reinforcements, perhaps? Or could they have been guarding a refuge?"

"Six reinforcements are barely anything for a village Redcliffe's size. Ambush? No. It's too difficult to get in and out of here. It's impractical. _Could_ be a hideout…but why no mages?" You chewed on your bottom lip before solidly shaking your head.

Your companion gestured with his staff back the way you had come, through the carnage of spilled, tainted blood. "I believe we should alert the Inquisition. At the least, there should be a quarantine—this is far too close to the Crossroads for comfort." Absently, you nodded and stood up to brush imaginary dirt from your legs. Neither of you spoke as you meandered into the first chamber and tried to figure out a way to climb up to a hole in a ceiling five or so feet above your heads. The only topics to fill the air were chilling and weighty.

And, honestly, that turned it into silence that you didn't want to break.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See what I meant by cliched? I actually had this whole chapter planned out and outlined like I do the entire rest of the story, but I started writing and went off topic and actually liked this result better than what I had planned. I always wanted Solas to figure Lys out first (though I did have a healthy debate on whether it should be him or Iron Bull-Solas won out in the end since in my headcanon, Trevelyan doesn't bring Bull on quests much early on which wouldn't give them much time to interact). Solas "figuring" Lys out this early and in this manner was never the plan. I'm gonna roll with it, though. It fits with what I have planned.
> 
> Also, Saffron is adorkable. I tried to subtly explain what a rig is for those of you who don't know. It's essentially a male horse whose testicles didn't drop and one or both still remain inside the horse's body. They appear to be geldings, but have stallion-like tendencies. From what I read (and I'm no expert, so please correct me if I'm wrong), it's difficult even with modern veterinary practices and technology to find and remove a rig's testicles in order to properly neuter them. Thedas is medieval, and though magic is a wonderful thing, I don't think it practical for it to be used as a cure-all. And I also like to think Dennet is a bit of a prankster and kept rigs specifically for the purposes of punking people looking for geldings xD
> 
> I'm tired. Don't judge me.
> 
> Well, hope you liked it!
> 
> ~SurreptitiousFox


	17. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Lys elaborates some things, loses a lot of money, has an argument, and Dorian is surprisingly enlightening.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm a bit later with this than I wanted to be, but my summer has been insanely...well, insane. Yeah. Anyway, hope you enjoy!

* * *

“ _Don’t you, when strangers and friends come to call, straighten the cushions, kick the books under the bed and put away the letter you were writing? How many of us want any of us to see us as we really are? Isn’t the mirror hostile enough?_ ” 

-Jeanette Winterson

* * *

**_~Thedas – 9:41 Dragon~_ **

* * *

 

*** **The ceiling, predictably, had been a no-go.** Neither you nor Solas could reach it for various reasons, and there was also the issue of the edges not looking particularly stable. You didn’t care for a repeat performance of your tumble into what turned out to be an old mine trying to get _out_ of it, thank you very much. You’d had enough broken bones for one day. It took some scouring, but with Solas’ actual _sight_ and your uncanny hearing from having _no_ sight, the two of you managed to find a well-concealed tunnel out into blessed open air hidden behind the gaudy dragon statue in the second chamber.

                The statue was simply a two-feet tall, three-dimensional rendition of the same, upwards-rearing dragon depicted in the amulets the cultists wore, but it was encrusted in jewels, some real some not, and opulent to the tenth extreme. It was an altar, if the offerings around its three foot granite base counted for anything. However, it wasn’t particularly Tevinter in design, and you voiced this opinion to Solas as the two of you labored to shove the damned thing out of the way.

                At your mentioning, the mage frowned. “Perhaps it is meant to be one of the Old Gods? They are often depicted as dragons, are they not?” You shook your head absently, running a finger along a ruby inlaid as a single, fiery eye. The other was a deep, soulful sapphire. It clashed, but also seemed to fit somehow, like it belonged there. The whole thing gave you an uneasy feeling. It was piecemeal but seamless at the same time.

                “Which one, though?” You rapped a nail on a fake diamond around the dragon’s horns. “This isn’t typical Tevinter form for a sculpture.”

                Solas moved to gain a better look at the statue, studying it with a scholar’s practiced eye and also running his hands along the surface, trying to find any inconsistencies. “If I were to guess, I would hazard this to be Urthemiel from the decoration. But you are correct as well in saying this is not a typical portrayal. I’ve never seen any of the Old Gods shown in such a way, Urthemiel included.”

                “I’m liking the situation less and less the more I can’t place it.”

                “The Herald should be informed of all this, as well as the Seeker,” Solas sighed as he straightened his posture. You froze as his words sunk in, the breadth of them, the potential implications. Warily, you gestured to yourself.

                You asked, “You mean to inform them of _everything_?” There would be no fighting him if he wanted to—gods, he had every right, you supposed. But that didn’t mean you would stick around to face the consequences. Just as easily as the Shadow Broker joined the Inquisition, it would take just as little effort to disappear from it, lay low for a while. Maybe an age or two, just to be sure. You figured you still had a good seven hundred years on you.

                Well, if the Breach didn’t swallow everything up in the meantime, that was.

                To his credit, the poor apostate looked dreadfully confused for a moment. He had his head tilted and everything. “What do you me—ah. I see.” You could feel his eyes locked pointedly on your face. The moments where he considered his words passed by as some of the slowest you’d ever experienced.

                “No,” he said finally, and you let out the breath you hadn’t been aware you were holding. “This is your secret to tell, _lethallan_. I would be pleased if you would agree to answer a few questions, however.” His gaze was boring into you again, that soulful stare that tried to pry you apart by the seams and show every dirty secret you kept locked away. You winced. At times you wondered if Solas was even aware he was doing it.

                “I suppose I don’t see the harm. On several topics, I can’t claim to be an expert. Just fair warning—there might be questions even I can’t answer.”

                “How do you know the statue is not Tevinter?” The question was fired off rapidly. It took you aback for a moment, and you were sure the look your face contorted into all but screamed “What in Oblivion?” Was he testing your knowledge of Tevinter art forms or something? He’d _agreed_ with you! You doubted he'd have done that if the answer wasn't as clear as you believed it to be.

                Shrugging, you replied as if it was obvious, “It isn’t. It’s too much. Tevinter is all dark and spiky and antique. This _isn’t_ —it’s flashy and I think even an Orlesian would be hard-pressed to not find it too loud.”

                “You misunderstand,” corrected Solas with a small, wary smile in his voice. “I mean to ask how you know what it looks like at all.”

                _Ah_.

                You rolled your eyes as the two of you re-commenced in sliding the granite-and-metal monstrosity off to the side. Bloody thing was heavier than it looked. “I said I’m not completely blind.”

                “Yet you never elaborated beyond saying so.” After sending a curious glance down the darkened, uncovered tunnel, Solas apparently deemed it safe enough to begin traversing. You decided to appease some of his unspoken curiosity and casted a weak magelight. It flickered both from the rust of disuse and the severely depleted status of your magika reserves. Still, it did the trick and lit the passage quite well from where you placed it hovering steadily between the two of you, and you could only shrug helplessly at the raised eyebrow the other elf shot you.

                The light bobbed as if mimicking your apprehension to answer. “It’s hard to elaborate on something one doesn’t entirely understand themselves. I can…sort of see through touch, but it’s…blurry.” You frowned at the words that wouldn’t come to you. Perhaps a bit of you also was frowning at how readily you were spilling information, but you honestly didn’t see the harm in it. If Solas wasn’t fully aware of how easily you could vanish when you wanted to, then you had sorely overestimated him, something you not often did. Provided the elf was smart about it (something you didn’t doubt in the slightest), he’d realized the futility of informing the Inquisition of information you did not wish to give.

                “I see,” he hummed simply in response. Solas motioned to the light. “And this? I’ve seen similar spells, however none quite so…”

                You grinned, “Responsive? I believe this particular magelight was considered to belong to the alteration school, but in truth, it’s closer to conjuration. Probably why I’m able to use it without much trouble.” Allowing the light to move however it wanted, you felt the ghost of a wisp make a few circles around your and Solas’ heads before willing it back to its position between the two of you.

                “It feels alive.”

                Solas was walking now, and you quickened your pace to keep up. “In a sense, it is alive. It’s…the closest I can get to explaining it is that it’s the memory of a spell wisp. Not truly one, of course—that would take more magika and I wouldn’t be able to direct it like this. Daedric wisps are tricky little buggers; never where you tell them to go.”

                Suddenly, the elf stopped and was almost glaring at you. He wasn’t quite, but it was close. “You summon spirits?”

                _Ah, shit_ , you cursed mentally, trying to backtrack what you’d said and realizing just how your words could be taken as out of context as they were. You’d always been a shit teacher. Trying to explain all of this stuff that you considered second nature was going to be the death of you if this was any indication. “No. Not… Alright, _this_ here isn’t actually a wisp. It’s a memory of one. Like how that vision at the Breach was a memory of what happened to the Divine.” The magelight dipped and rose as if to second your statement, and you had to resist some very uncharacteristic squealing. You’d always loved this spell. It was unintentionally adorable.

                “I can use conjuration magic, yes. In fact, it’s my specialty.” You raised a hand to cut Solas off as he prepared to speak—probably something patronizing, if you had to guess. It had completely slipped your mind just how your words might be taken in a Thedosian context to someone who considered spirits among his closest friends—spirits that could be corrupted and twisted into vile, horrific things when summoned and bound. “ _However_ , as with every other spell I can cast, _my_ summoning is different from _your_ summoning. I don’t summon spirits or demons from the Fade. _I_ summon _Daedra_ , which, as far as I am aware, are completely different. Daedra can be temporarily bound to the caster with no ill effects and are harmlessly sent back to Oblivion when fatigued, dispelled, or they have expended the amount of magika used to bind them to this plane.”

                He was still frowning, but not near as bad. It wasn’t quite as fierce, and it wasn’t quite as terrified. “Oblivion? Is that perhaps what your people call the Fade?”

                “No. We called the Fade the Dreamsleeve.” You flushed at his pointedly tilted head. “Silly name, I know. You’d think we’d be more original. Anyway, I’ve…theorized due to the differences in magic that Thedas is… _placed_ far closer to the Drea—er, _the Fade_ than Nirn was. And Nirn, conversely, was closer to one of the Oblivion realms.”

                “There is more than one?”

                You mindlessly tapped at a depleted ore vein as you passed it, glittering in the spell light. “Sixteen, with a Lord for each. The inhabitants of these realms are called Daedra, and my magic is drawn from Oblivion. Hence, Daedric magic. That I can access my magic at all proves that Thedas is within the same plane that Nirn was and not in another one entirely. Your magic, on the other hand, _is_ different.” Quickly, to prove a point, you charged your hand with a bit of magika and tapped the elf’s shoulder. He smothered the jolt well enough, but you could tell that the suddenness of the touch combined with the lacing of magic through your fingers had startled him.

                “That felt grating, didn’t it?” A hesitant nod and you allowed the lazy grin to spread across your face. “Good, I’d been wondering if how your magic felt to me went both ways. That tells me now beyond a shadow of a doubt that Thedosian magic is what my people called Aedric or Aetherial, drawn from Aetherius. My people draw on Daedric magic instead because it is nearly _impossible_ to bypass Oblivion to reach the Aetherial plane. So rare is it that there were only a handful of recorded incidences where such a thing occurred. Thedas being placed right up against or even partially inside of the Dreamsleeve, the Fade, would explain why pulling on it is so easy for you. It has long been thought that the Dreamsleeve acts as a connection between Mundus, what we call the plane of Existence, and Aetherius.”

                Well, more like a hole punched straight through it, but you’d save the description of Aurbis and Wheel for a later date.

                A sharp dip in the path was followed by a veer to the left. There was an untapped silver vein right at the crux of the turn; you would have to remember that. “Your people appear to have had quite an understanding of how planes related to one another. I believe there _was_ a theory among the ancient elves of something similar to your Oblivion. _Banal’ras’arla_ , it was called. Home of shadows. As far as I am aware, however, it never had any proof, and I am unfamiliar with much else aside from name and basic concepts.” Solas had a wry smirk behind his voice, begging to be loosed.

                “Interesting, but I think we just had longer to figure it out…hold on,” you frowned, trying to go through some calculations in your head. Gah, numbers jumbled your brain even worse than languages and metaphysics did. “Merethic was…twenty-five hundred? Then Dawn I think was six or so. First, second, third…fourth… It was over seven and a half thousand years from Convention to end. Or less depending on how you want to view the Middle Dawn fiasco.”

                Solas shook his head at you as light from something other than your spell could be seen spilling around the next bend. It looked natural from your blurry angle. “The city of Arlathan was founded over eight thousand years ago, according to records, and _Elvhen_ civilization existed long before that. Middle Dawn?"

                You narrowed your eyes a bit on his pronunciation of “elven”, but filed it away. You’d only heard the word said that way from Merrill, but she’d received harsh backlash from Marethari for using it. To this day despite about a month of prying, you didn’t know why.

                “Damn. And here I was hoping to _not_ have to suggest that we were just smarter than you.” You let him peek around the corner first, grumbling all the while. “Also, nope. Leaving descriptions of the Marukhati Selective and Dragon Breaks for a much later date. They give me headaches on good days. This is _not_ a good day.” Solas actually laughed as he gave the all clear and stepped out into blessed sunlight. The sound was outwardly happy, but there was an undercurrent of melancholy surrounding Arlathan that you didn’t want to ask about. You weren’t particularly in the mood to have an “I saw it in the Fade” excuse thrown back at you. A lie to your face (and you knew it was a lie, or at least a half-truth) when you were going against your better judgment and being so honest just didn’t appeal.

                He _was_ grinning at you, though, an amused thing that practically peeled several decades worth of stress off his face, so you supposed not prying had its merits. “Or perhaps you simply spent more of that time amassing knowledge on the subject.”

                “Hmm, true. We didn’t have a coddling Chantry looking over our shoulders the past thousand or so years, throwing a superstitious hissy fit every time we so much as cast a fireball. I imagine that _would_ put a bit of a damper on anyone hoping to traverse the Fade for any clues,” you chortled quietly at your mild barb.

                That was, however, how you ended up explaining Nirn’s magic, religious, and political situation before the fall to a raptly curious apostate all the way back to where your horse had been left.

* * *

 

 **Grass, it turned out, caused quite the stain on ironbark.** Solas was able to find your mask tossed carelessly into a pile of weeds once the two of you meandered your way back to Saffron. It had somehow not gotten damaged beyond a few scuffs that would easily be sanded out, but green and sticky flora certainly had mashed most spectacularly along the left side. And it refused to scrub out, so you were left sporting a mask that made you look like you’d nuzzled your face in a bush.

                Solas was far too amused when he had informed you in a matter-of-fact voice of how much Varric would appreciate the addition. You supposed angrily shooting him crude gestures only helped fuel the humor he drew from the whole thing. Made you feel better, though.

                He actually had a good sense of humor on him, if in a quiet manner, and his sour-and-dourness from the trip to Redcliffe was attributed to his preoccupation figuring out why the Veil had felt so strange. You had to laugh at how Alan was using the man as a battlemage, not because he was poor at fighting (actually, the strength of Solas’ combat magic was mildly frightening), but because the elf was quite obviously a scholar through and through. He reminded you of Falion in that he couldn’t ignore a mystery, and you could see Vienelé in his apparent fascination with history.

                Actually, almost all of the things you’d told him about Nirn were facts the Breton woman had crammed into your head in the first place. She’d honest-to-goodness been _insulted_ that you hadn’t known what the Marukhati Selective was or that it had been a part of the Alessian Order. After sitting through an impromptu three-hour lesson on the Imgan Prophet-Most-Simian and his anti-mer campaign, you made the mistake of pointing out that _of course_ the _Altmer_ Temple you were raised in wouldn’t have included the group in its curriculum. They liked censuring too much, and mentions of Marukh that you did remember painted him as more of a devil than a devout priest. He worshipped the wrong god, definitely not the living Altmer as the rest of the Imga did, and got struck from history because of it. It happened quite frequently. She’d gone on another three-hour rant about biased racism in Altmeri education (ironically in defense of a racist) and only stopped when Saeta threatened to set her on fire.

                _That_ hadn’t been fun. Something Solas would do, perhaps, if provoked on the right subject. But not fun.

                Anyway, once you and said lecture-happy elf had settled back in camp and Saffron was set contentedly munching on a carrot across the camp from Theneras, a bird was sent to Haven informing them of the situation. You somehow were roped into writing it, and you suspected duplicity as your elven companion had been far too fascinated with peering over your shoulder as you did so and pointing out how your handwriting was even more atrocious than you’d originally believed. He did help you a little with it, so there was some good involved in the humiliation.

                Leliana’s scouts arrived a week later to secure the cave with news that the Herald wasn’t far behind. Alan wanted to see the mine, but the presence of Blight made it far too dangerous. No one was willing to risk the only hope there was at sealing the Breach to what amounted to a wasting sickness that’s only cure in and of itself was a death sentence over  half the time, so a Grey Warden was being sent instead. Gordon Blackwall, the report said. Leliana wanted to ask the man a few questions on the rather mysterious disappearance of Grey Wardens from Fereldan and sent Alan to escort him, but it appeared Blight so close to the Crossroads warranted his presence in the Hinterlands far more urgently than in Haven.

                You doubted there would be much he could do aside from give advice on how to handle the infected bodies, but even you knew about all that could be done was to thoroughly burn them and to never, under any circumstances, either bury the ashes or scatter them. Infected ashes needed to be entombed somewhere that didn’t run the risk of contaminating soil, wild flora, groundwater, drinking water, or irrigation water. What with the years scouting around the Anvil, this wasn’t your first showdown dealing with the infection and how to dispose of what it touched. It was part of why you weren’t quite so terrified at the prospect of being infected yourself—you knew what to expect, and after a day of not noticing anything, you had known you were fine even without Solas magically clearing you.

                Still, Leliana didn’t entirely trust what you had to say, experience _in the Deep Roads_ be damned, so this Warden was going to be a thing whether you liked it or not. He’d be arriving with Trevelyan and Varric, along with the Tevinter mage from Redcliffe, apparently, because there was also something mentioned about a plan to deal with Alexius.

                Dand was going to be receiving a letter asking him if he and his mysterious Grey Warden cousin you half suspected was actually fake knew anything about this Blackwall. And you’d asked if he could scrounge anything up through his contacts about a Dorian Pavus, too. Never could be too prepared. That the mage had followed Alan back to Haven without anyone noticing just set your teeth on edge.

                After hearing about the Templars, apparently both Josephine and Cassandra had sent letters to Therinfal Redoubt all but pleading for a meeting with the Lord Seeker. One had been a formal letter and the other… _strongly-worded_ (no bets needed on which belonged to whom), but there had, predictably, been no response. Red lyrium infection worried Alan enough that he sent a small entourage headed by the Iron Bull and his Chargers, not so much a polite knock as a stern warning with the battering ram to prove it. Or battering _bull_ , as the case was.

                _The Iron Ram_ just didn’t have the same ring to it.

                Had you any contacts within the order, you would have gotten in touch with them. Alas, the Templars had been the one organization you had stalwartly refused to deal with simply out of self-preservation, and as such, any points of information you _did_ have were second-hand through Dand or Dagna. And Dagna was incognito at the moment, so it was all a matter of whenever Dand got your letter, managed to get a hold of whatever contacts _he_ might have, hear back, and then get back to _you_. It was a process that would take time the Inquisition didn’t have. So it devolved into a waiting game to see what Bull would find.

                You hated waiting games.

                Greeting the scouts was a boring ordeal made comfortable by both Solas’ insistence on doing most of the speaking and that your femur, which was stubborn about mending, had completely healed between your tumble and their arrival. That you’d also procured a new set of clothes, cowl, and gloves didn’t hurt anything, either, and having the familiar heft of your mask was cathartic. Solas also seemed to notice that you were to capacity for secret-spilling and had refrained from asking about anything in-depth, thankfully.

                The scouts asked about the ice marks and mashed Templar bodies. Without actually confirming or denying anything, they’d been lead to believe that the corpses were Solas’ handiwork—you’d never been more thankful for the mage’s partialness to frost magic than you were in that moment.

                You both had to escort the four men and three women to the mine, but once there you were more than able to leave them to their own devices and wait for the Herald’s arrival the next day. Alan, Varric, Dorian, and a surly warrior you could only guess was Warden-Constable Blackwall trudged into camp with absolutely no pomp, soaked to the bone from catching the torrential beginnings of a seasonal rain and looking wretchedly miserable. The first thing they did was shuffle into the large tent you’d thought to set up beforehand and try to get some feeling back into their fingers before going _back_ out to put up their personal tents.

                Solas and yourself were loitering around in said tent, carelessly playing a card game to wait out the rain when they stumbled inside in a heap. They hadn’t surprised either of you as you’d heard them sloshing along before they actually got to camp, but you and the other elf nonetheless sat looking at the cursing mess of wet armor and leather and people with raised eyebrows.

                “Well,” you drawled, picking up a new card and deciding to frown at it instead of your companions behind your mask, “that’s a fine ‘ _how do you do?_ ’” Solas took that moment to quietly lay down a few cards, and you scowled. _Sneaky bastard…_

                From somewhere on the canvas-covered floor, Alan’s chestnut head tilted at an awkward angle. “Oh, Lys! Solas! How are you? Have you met Blackwall? No? Meet Blackwall!” What was supposed to be a thumb-jerk was more of a half-assed hand-flop in the general direction of a slumped mound of black hair, silver armor, gray padding, and _bulk_. Though waterlogged, the Warden was a large man and undoubtedly formidable if the nicks on his shield and handaxe counted for anything.

                Said Warden gave a grunt in reply, but didn’t vocalize anything beyond that. It was Varric who spoke up from where he was curled disturbingly around Bianca. Him and that crossbow...wait, was he…? Ew, gods, he was—you were going to have more trouble than usual sleeping tonight. “Prowler, Chuckles, meet Hero.” You rolled your eyes—of _course_ Varric already gave him a nickname. Of course.

                “Pleasure.” The dryness in your voice belonged in a desert. “Rough trip, I take it?”

                The Tevinter croaked from his quivering puddle of silk and buckles, “ _Vishante kaffas_ , woman—what do _you_ think?!”

                “Oh yeah—this is Sparkler,” Varric added. You couldn’t stop the snorting laugh that erupted from your throat, and you couldn’t have cared less that it drew a few looks.

                "How fitting. Better buck up, Pavus—it'll get worse somehow."

                Solas raised a brow at you when you slapped his hand away from your cards and motioned instead to the solitary one that was the draw pile. Dorian actually lifted his head up from the ground and glared heatedly at you, not seeing or caring about the exchange. And... _Morihaus'_ _nose_ _ring_ , was that _eyeliner_ running down his face? "I'm rethinking this venture. You all can handle Alexius without me."

                You rolled your eyes and set down cards of your own. "Speaking of, what's the deal with that, Trevelyan? The scouts didn't know and the letter said nothing."

                "Windmill...ugh...later," was all you managed to decipher from Alan's incoherent humming. You tilted your head. The man was half asleep.

                Solas smirked. "You're admitting the Shadow Broker actually does not know?" A glare was halfhearted, tempered when the elf on the receiving end of your ire was forced to fork over three of his cards. You accepted them gleefully and placed down a set of four next to two others on the small table.

                "I'm good," you shrugged, "but I'm not that good."

                Solas hummed, and you finally accepted that you were done for. "Is that so? Perhaps not, as I believe you owe me your sevens?" Growling, you flung the three cards left in your hands at his face. They didn't quite make it, instead fluttering to the tabletop harmlessly, one covering a portion of Solas' matching sets of cards. He had ten to your three. Bastard.

                “How are you so good at ‘ _Go Fish_ ’? It’s practically all chance!”

                The elf looked smugger than you were comfortable with, and you just _knew_ he’d done _something_ but also knew there was no way to prove anything. He had to have—it was the only way! You narrowed your eyes. _Sneaky bastard!_

                Varric scoffed. “Seriously? You’re playing ‘ _Go Fish_ ’? I had you pegged as a betting kind of girl, Prowler. That game’s no fun unless there’s coin or stripping involved, and I see no evidence of either.”

                You were going to just ignore that last part. It was better on your sanity that way. “You don’t understand, dwarf. I never lose. This is the sixth game, and I’ve lost six times. No one is that lucky with ‘ _Go Fish_ ’. No one.”

                The Warden grumbled from his corner, “Six times? Sure you’re not just bad at cards and no one ever told you?”

                “ _I’m sure_ ,” you said flatly, crossing your arms and feeling a little insulted. Solas still hadn’t said a word, and you didn’t think he was going to as he began to pack up the deck of cards. “The game’s _luck_ , Warden Blackwall. And in my thirty-four years, I've yet to lose at cards...until today.”

                “Sore loser? Or, unlucky, then?” offered Dorian. He wasn't addressing you at all, but rather Varric and Blackwall. You huffed.

                Chortling, the dwarf of the group sat up and began fluffing out his hair to try and get it some semblance of dry. “She better not play Wicked Grace with him, if that’s the case.” Dead silence, and his face fell comically. “She _didn’t_ , right Chuckles?” True to his nickname, Solas chuckled and nodded, and you promptly wanted to hide.

                “She did, I’m afraid.”

                “And _lost_?” Blackwall seemed astounded, more tuned into the conversation now. “With that mask? _How_?”

                You grumbled, “That’s what I want to know.”

                “Shit, how bad he clear you out?” asked Varric, voice colored with amusement as he concluded the real reason why you had devolved to playing stake-less ' _Go Fish_ '--you were broke. You deflated further and, in lieu of answering, tossed him your quite obviously empty coin purse. There wasn’t a copper to be had in the blasted thing.

                “ _All of your coin?!_ ”

                “Yep, all of it,” you groused.

                He threw your coin purse back to you. The sound of empty leather flopping through the air where there so recently had been plentiful jingling was downright _depressing_. “What about that money I lost to you in Val Royeaux? I know you didn’t spend it yet.”

                “That, too.”

                "It alone was fifty sovereigns!" The poor dwarf was absolutely agog.

                "I know."

                Varric gave Solas a look that was a cross between confusion, respect, awe, and maybe a little bit of fear. “ _Damn_ , Chuckles.”

                “My sentiments exactly.” Glaring at the elf again, you barely noticed him giving a perfectly neutral look to the occupants of the room. You were far too focused trying to make daggers fly from your glower and stab him. It wasn’t working, but it was probably the closest you would actually be able to get to stabbing him, so it would have to do.

                All he did was shrug as he put away the cards. Your grumbling was left unacknowledged. "I suggest instead of theorizing on Lys' card skills, we wake the Herald and discuss this plan?" You eventually shrugged and conceded. After all, Alan didn't come up with it all on his own. How bad could it be?

* * *

 

**"No."**

                Turns out, it was bad.

                Alan gave to you a deadpan stare. "No?"

                "No," you reiterated with a contradictory nod. "Find someone else."

                He was flummoxed, and it was slightly funny. It was like he couldn't fathom why you would disagree with him, and you couldn't fathom his lack of fathoming. "Wha— _why_? Why won't you...? I don't understand."

                You rolled your eyes (not that Alan could see it) and continued brushing down Varric's pony. Whoever assigned you mount duty was going to pay dearly when you got your hands on them. Alan continued to stare at you as if you'd sprouted another head, but you studiously ignored him. He didn't understand that no meant no, apparently. It seemed his inner entitled rich kid was showing.

                Trevelyan's genius plan had himself and a small entourage walking into the trap that was Redcliffe Castle as a distraction while a small team of scouts plus the newest Tevinter addition snuck in through some escape tunnel. An ambush for the ambush, as it were. However, he wanted you to lead the scouts into the castle.

                You. _Leading_. The idea was laughable, so that's exactly what you did. The last time you lead anything, a world died, your network a whole other puppy that you weren’t going to equate to anything.

                Not that you could exactly inform Alan of your horrible track record, so he was being particularly ornery about your unexplained refusal. "Lys, come on, if anyone can get those scouts inside undetected, it's you!"

                You tilted your head mockingly. "Oh? Can I? I was under the impression that I work _alone_ , but if you apparently know more about my limits and abilities, then please, by all means! Do enlighten me." The man pursed his lips.

                “Don’t make me order you.”

                “Don’t make me ignore you,” you shot back icily.

                “Maker above—I give up!” Alan’s hands were thrown up into the air borderline violently, and you paused your brushing to listen curiously. “Why does every conversation with you have to turn into an argument?”

                Outwardly seething now, you tossed the brush into a saddle bag and flipped your mask’s glower onto Alan. “Maybe because I’m here to help the Inquisition close the Breach, not get bossed around like a recruit!”

                “You know what might help with that?”

                Sneering, you spat, “ _What_?”

                “Leading the scouts!”

                With jerky motions borne of anger was the pony's tack removed. Of all the presumptuous, preposterous, confounded preconceptions... "The answer is no, and that's final. Have Pavus do it."

                " _Dorian_ ," he emphasized because your aversion to given names was another thing that apparently annoyed him, "isn't an infiltrator with a flawless record."

                Snorting, you couldn't help but think of Kinloch hold, or the Thalmor Embassy back in Skyrim, or any number of thieving attempts gone wrong from your youth. You were miserable with old-fashioned stealth and advising a group how to cohesively utilize it. There was too heavy a reliance on potions and spells to keep you concealed that other people could not use. What did Alan think was the reason behind you never setting traps or ambushes like a typical rogue? In groups with the handicaps you faced in Thedas, you fought more like a warrior, albeit a rather agile one. "If you think my record is truly flawless, then you are misguided."

                Alan groaned, “Flawless or flawed, you’re the best I’ve got. You were so worried about going to the mages before, I understand that. I am, too! It’s why I don’t want to go in there without knowing my best has my back.” You stared down at the ground for a few minutes, trying to digest the words but not quite managing to. Something in his voice, in his tone, told you he was being genuine. It wasn’t…people didn’t…

                He was acting like he _admired_ you. But by any name—be it _Lys Ralvayn_ , _Shadow Broker_ , _Amaryllis_ , _Lysana Nirith_ , _Celria Caradriil_ , _Vaelyswen Direnni_ , or whatever other alias you could concoct—you weren’t someone to be admired.

                “Look, I appreciate it. Really, I do.” You turned to face him, hoping that somehow the stoniness of your mask could for once convey what you felt. “But trust me, I’m not the one you want leading those scouts. I’m sorry.”

                The Herald’s responding laugh was more of a bitter yelp as he ran a hand through shaggy curls. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m sorry, too.” A moment of awkward silence ensued where you refused to look away and Alan refused to look _at_ you before he finally took a few slow, stumbling steps back to his tent. When he was out of earshot, you sighed and fiddled with Flemeth’s brooch.

                Trevelyan didn’t understand, and you figured you’d be out of line to blame him for it. All he was doing was working with the situation handed to him, allocating trust where he felt he could spare it so as to make the most out of a shitty scenario. How _could_ you blame him when you’d done the same thing yourself twelve years ago? You trusted Idgrod. You trusted Lurks-In-Shadows, Vienelé, Falion…

                _But you also trusted_ him _, and look where that got you_ , that pessimistic little voice hissed in the back of your mind. One single, bad decision in the middle of a rock and a hard place, and far too many innocent people paid the price for your mistake. You barely trusted yourself to run your network without fucking up, and as far as that went, most of it was unknowingly handled by Dand anymore. All you did was check things and change flower colors.

                You snorted. It was funny—changing flower colors. Did that make you some kind of over-glorified florist, then?

                “If you glare at that tree any longer, I think it’ll spontaneously combust,” a dry voice said from behind you. You didn’t jump, but it was a near thing.

                Rolling your eyes, you walked over to Saffron and offered him a carrot from your pack. The rig’s face practically glowed as he devoured the vegetable like he hadn’t eaten in weeks. “Go away, Pavus. I’m not in the mood.” You’d learned in the past five hours of sharing a soggy camp with him that the man was a ball of sarcasm and flamboyancy. He came on a _lot_ strong and didn’t seem to care that his personality—and his ego—took up enough space for three people.

                “Oh, _please_ ,” the mage waved away some imaginary pest as he trotted after you like a lost puppy. “Not in the mood for me and my extraordinary charm? My dear, I think you’re feverish.”

                “Okay, first off, call me ‘ _dear_ ’ again, and I will not be responsible for my actions. Second, _go away_.”

                Dorian shrugged offhandedly. “I think Varric will agree with me when I say you just give off a vibe begging for nicknames. And by ‘ _give off a vibe_ ’, I mean ‘ _you’re so secretive, it’s mildly frightening and we give you nicknames to make you a bit more approachable_ ’.”

                “Good,” you scoffed. “That just means less people ought to be _bothering me_.” The last part was pointedly directed at the mustached Tevinter. He studiously ignored you, something you were sure he had practice at doing.

                “Odd then that you’d join the _Inquisition_. Seems a bit cohesive for your taste, wouldn’t you agree?” Pausing in the middle of loosening Saffron’s saddle, you narrowed your eyes into suspicious slits. Was he…? Mara’s mercy—he was interrogating you! What _was_ it with the mages around here? Why were all of them so nosy?

                You said slowly, “What does it matter?”

                He rolled his eyes. “Don’t act all guarded and suspicious. The whole camp could hear your little quarrel. Varric and I were betting on how long it would take you to punch him.” You blanched a little, only then realizing that, no, the argument hadn’t exactly been quiet.

                “I didn’t punch him, so who won?”

                “Me, naturally,” he grinned. “Nice attempt at a subject change, by the way. All joking aside, you do realize how much he looks up to you, right?”

                You laughed outright, the volume and your proximity to Saffron’s ear causing the horse to send you a dirty look around his mouthful of carrot. “ _Ha!_ Me? I’m a thorn in the kid’s side. You’re nobility, right? You should know then how _diplomacy_ works. He’s trying to cajole me into leading that squad is all.”

                Dorian vehemently shook his perfectly groomed head, then looked mildly irritated when a few strands of hair fell out of place. “So you think. You didn’t see him pushing at Haven to have you included in the infiltration. And that letter you sent? He treated your advice like it was plated in gold.”

                “He values my information as the _Shadow Broker_ ,” you muttered, though you felt a bit…humbled. Chastised, perhaps? “It’s…understandable.” _Though entirely, completely unwarranted_.

                Sighing, the mage spread his arms in a generic gesture of “what can you do?” You had moved on to brushing your horse with steady, even strokes to avoid getting a horse head to the sternum. “Does it even matter? For whatever reason, despite your infamy or even because of it, that man trusts you implicitly.”

                You eyed Dorian warily; uneasy with the emotions he was unknowingly—or maybe on purpose—stirring up. “Why are you telling me this?”

                “Perhaps I’m just in a giving mood. It doesn’t happen often—I’d enjoy it while it lasts.”

                “No,” you spread your arms wide. “Why point that out? What do you gain?”

                He snorted. “Not everyone from Tevinter has some sort of extra-malicious angle, you know. Besides, watching you coldly brush off every one of the Herald’s attempts at weaseling advice out of you was positively _agonizing_.”

                “Advice?” you asked, flabbergasted.

                “Yes,” he sighed like he was trying to explain something to a petulant two year-old. “Our glorified leader was trying to ask you for _advice_. As I said, for whatever reason, he looks up to you.” You barely swallowed down a half-assed retort about him only looking up to the library of information you had tucked away inside your head and available at your fingertips.

                _He sounded like he admired you_.

                You scrambled for something, anything. “I’m not…he doesn’t want my advice.”

                “I daresay _he_ should be the judge of that?” asked Dorian dryly. “I don’t need to be a spy or scout to tell you wear that mask for a reason. Self-deprecation doesn’t become you.”

                “ _Excuse me_?”

                The mage raised his hands in a peace gesture. “I’m only explaining what I’ve seen. I don’t have the foggiest idea why you’re pushing people away if they so much as look at you wrong, but if you intend to continue doing so, then perhaps you need to re-think being a part of the Inquisition?” No more words were exchanged, and Dorian, seeming to have said his piece, abruptly stalked away.

                It wasn’t until Saffron nudged your stationary arm that you realized why his words stung so much. It was because they were true.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know why, but I felt like calling Lys out on her antisocial tendencies was something Dorian would do. I also felt like Solas would be the type to be unexpectedly amazing at cards. I mean, Dread Wolf. C'mon, now.
> 
> Also, it was established pretty early on that Lys is using a pseudonym and has been for an indiscriminate amount of time. Her real name is mentioned in here. Any guesses?
> 
> And an announcement of sorts-I've started a side-project! It's a straight Criminal Minds fanfiction, Surface and Symbol. If any of you are interested, go check it out! I'm going to still focus most of my time here with All Fall Down, but I will try to get somewhat regular-ish updates on S&S as well. Like I said-side project.
> 
> Just curious, but has anyone done any fanart for AFD? If so or if anyone's inclined to do any, I'd be interested in seeing Lys or Dand or any of the other OCs and scenes from your guys' perspective. Or, if you perfer, since I like to tack songs onto everything, what would you give Lys as a theme song?


	18. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Twists...twists, evil, evil twists. This is one of my milestone moments for this story, hence why the chapter is a tad shorter than the norm. But I hope I kinda throw you for a loop.
> 
> I took some creative freedoms with making up a historical event. Nothing major. And by "trauma bonding" I'm subtly referencing Stockholm Syndrome because that's always fun to have in a story (sarcasm totally intended).

* * *

" _Y_ _et each man kills the thing he loves_  
By each let this be heard  
Some do it with a bitter look  
Some with a flattering word  
The coward does it with a kiss  
The brave man with a sword."

-Oscar Wilde, _The Ballad Of Reading Gaol_

* * *

_**~Thedas – 9:41 Dragon~** _

* * *

**Being left behind in camp was both a blessing and a curse.** Just that morning, Alan had packed up himself, Solas, Varric, Blackwall, Dorian, and the scouts to make their way to Redcliffe, blatantly ignoring you in the process. Which suited you just fine, as you were also choosing to not acknowledge he existed. Perhaps it was childish, but you were past caring. The anger was too strong.

You weren't quite ready to admit that the anger was at yourself more than at the Herald—he was an easier target.

Anyway, as you hadn't accepted the responsibility of leading the scouts and you and Alan weren't on speaking terms after your argument, you had stayed to mind the tents on the off chance a nonexistent bandit decided to pillage the campsite. It wasn't going to happen, so your "job" was a moot thing, but it made you feel better than owning up to the fact that you were stuck doing nothing productive for the next gods-only-knew how long due to your own stubbornness.

Err… _Alan's_ stubbornness, you meant. Alan's.

So once Saffron, the only horse to have been left behind, was properly fed and watered, you sat down at a table in the main tent, pulled out the two cultist amulets and your chicken-scratch journal, and began brainstorming.

Nothing about any of it made sense. Leliana couldn't find anything, Dand couldn't find anything, Bull even looked and couldn't find anything. The only concrete bit of knowledge anyone managed to gather was that the cultists wearing the amulets, the ones Alexius apparently had in Redcliffe in bulk, were not themselves Venatori. They were part of some other nameless group, but other than them being a separate entity that was currently working closely with the Tevinter supremacists, the trail was cold.

It explained the lack of mages, but not the presence of Blight, their few numbers, location, or why in the world non-mages would have a paralysis ward guarding them. According to Solas, paralysis was not an easy glyph to master, definitely not for amateurs or novices, much less non-mages. It quite literally had no place being there. You would have suggested that the ward had been meant to keep the cultists _in_ and not keep others out. The other tunnel, however, rendered that argument null.

You just didn't understand, and that ate at you. The only things you knew for certain was that these people worshipped a dragon, presumably weren't mages, had a thing for the color orange, and apparently were not adverse to the idea of becoming blight-infested ghouls. They had grey in their robes—Grey Wardens? Ones that refused to acknowledge their Calling?

No. Where were the mages if that was the case? Not all of them were old enough to experience a Calling, either—a few were barely teenagers. Worshiping a dragon might fit, but if they were really from Tevinter like everything pointed to, then it fit regardless. The one thing that kept stubbornly resurfacing was the ward. It was the most out-of-place, and you had a nagging feeling that it was the key to whatever it was you were missing.

You and Solas had discussed it at length before the others had arrived, and he came to the same conclusion. Beyond recognizing it as paralytic, he claimed to be unable to place the magic as one style or another. And the only reason you both even knew _that_ much was because it had quite obviously paralyzed you. Glyphs and wards could be silent, which also indicated that the one you triggered had doubled as an alarm of sorts.

It was smart. It was methodical. It was paranoid. But _it didn't fit_.

Closing your eyes, you laid your head down on top of the journal you hadn't opened. You thought back to the mine. It had been cool, the air a bit damp and smelling metallic due to the minerals in the walls. Your leg ached and arm throbbed—actually, all of you throbbed. Remembering getting to the second chamber and deciding to show off a little by casting your invisibility, you could feel the lingering anxiety from earlier reigniting in a rush of adrenaline. You recalled the careful, cautious few steps, then stepping on the glyph.

Instantaneously did the magic react, swirling and gripping you and holding your person so firmly in place you were amazed you could still breathe. Sulfur and green apples, sour and bitter and _wrong_ hit your nose just before the noise like shattered glass followed. The best way you could describe a paralysis spell was elastic, but not in a good way. Like too many rubber bands that were far too tight were suddenly wrapped around all of your limbs, constricting every inch of you together with no real give regardless of how much you squirmed.

Solas had quick reflexes, part from being elven, part from practice, and part from good old-fashioned natural talent. His dispel ripped the magic clean away before you could even begin to lose your balance, and your skin was left so _raw_ afterwards—

Your eyes shot open. _And your skin was left so raw_ from Solas' magic. Raw from Thedosian magic. It hurt. It always hurt. It always felt like a hot knife was scraping away at every layer of gold-toned flesh, trying to see the muscle underneath but without the right tools to make the process quick and painless. Your skin felt like it should've either been in ribbons or extraordinarily sunburned.

"Sunburned," you murmured, a bit dumbfounded as you scrambled away from the table. "Damn it. Shit. No, no, no, no, no— _fuck!_ How could I not notice?!"

The paralysis glyph hadn't hurt.

That spell wasn't made from Aedric magic—it was _Daedric_.

* * *

 **You hadn't even bothered re-saddling Saffron, and instead mounted the horse bareback.** Luckily for you, he was intelligent enough to notice that time was of the essence and made the ride to Redcliffe uncharacteristically easy for you. Halfway there, a… _ripple_ , for lack of a better term, caused you to urge him faster. Dread was bubbling in the pit of your stomach because the ripple stank of unfamiliar Aedric magic coming from Redcliffe, and if you could feel it so strongly so far away, it couldn't be good. Add in that Alan had given Alexius that entourage he'd wanted so badly…

Besides, the last time you'd felt magic suddenly erupt a great distance away, the world had ended up with a hole in the sky. Not the best for precedent, that.

Once close to the gates, you took a sharp detour and, after tucking Saffron away where he was least likely to be found, climbed over the wall instead of walking straight through. Something told you going right on in wasn't a good idea. It took you all of three minutes to decide to go to the windmill where the secret entrance to the castle was first, and you were glad you did as a haggard scout peeked his head around a crumbling wall when you approached.

Had the boy not been half-dead, his widening eyes would have been comical. And, y'know, had you actually been able to _see_ them. "Milady! Thank the Maker! I was waiting for nightfall to sneak back to the camp." A rush of words you could only half understand began to spill out of his mouth. The scout was talking too fast for you to get more than Alan's name out of him, so, sighing, you knelt behind the wall with him out of sight and gave the boy a good shake. His jaw snapped shut, enormous blue eyes watery with a bit of terror and glazed with a bit of shock. You offhandedly determined him to be a half-breed. His features weren't quite angular enough to be completely elven, but they weren't soft enough to be completely human, either. Didn't see many of his kind.

"One thing at a time. What happened?"

"Th-the Magister. He cast some sort of strange magic—it was chaos! In the fighting, the Herald told me and a few others to come and find you. The others...they didn't make it, and...and..." He was pale and distraught, but he got even more pallid as he spoke. You growled and stood.

"Damn! I knew this would happen. I need to get word to Haven—"

The scout suddenly gripped your leg as you tried to move away, his fingers so tight they shook where they dug into your skin. "No! There isn't time! T-they've probably got them in the dungeons by now—the Herald wanted us to get you to break them out!"

"Break them out?" you fretted, gently prying his hand away and crouching next to him again. "I thought you said they were fighting?" You surreptitiously took his pulse from his wrist you held. It was far too fast and a bit thread-y, weak. How much of it was shock from physical trauma and how much from emotional trauma was anyone's guess.

"They were!" He wailed quietly, face pinched. "But it wasn't looking good. The Magister's time magic..." The scout broke of with a whimper, and you bit the inside of your cheek to suppress the scream of frustration. A traumatized scout would not be a good scout. But if you were going to do this, you needed someone familiar with the tunnels, and he was.

Shaking your head, you replied, "The advisors still need to be informed of this so they can send backup of we get caught."

The boy moaned, partially in pain from the bruises forming on his face and part in exasperation. "There's no time! His Worship wanted your assistance as soon as possible. I've left a message for any other Inquisition scouts, but we can't afford to send a crow! Milady, _please._ "

Gritting your teeth, you dragged a hand over your mask as if that would help alleviate the budding headache. It didn't. You let out a long sigh and pulled out a roll of bandages. "Alright. Let's go, but you're binding that side before we go anywhere and staying behind me. You passing out from blood loss halfway there is the last thing either of us needs."

"Or the Herald," he muttered as he grudgingly took the cloth and did as you asked. The wound actually wasn't that bad, a mildly deep gash probably from an axe. But he was already in shock blood loss could exacerbate the problem, a chance you were NOT taking.

So you nodded at him approvingly, beginning to help him with winding the cloth around his abdomen. "Or Alan. What's your name?"

The question took him off guard, it seemed. "W-Will."

You nodded again in a way you hoped came off as reassuring and not distracted. "Good, Will. Now, c'mon. You need to tell me where in here this passage is and how I'm supposed to open it."

* * *

 **The trek through the tunnels** was long and elaborate and confusing, and at one point you even went _underwater_ to reach the castle. Despite Will's help, the two of you hit dead ends frequently. It was a half hour before you came across the first Venatori body—clearly Inquisition work by the snapped neck—and proof that you were nearing the dungeons.

That body hadn't raised any alarms at first. You were still a ways into the tunnels at that point—it wasn't a stretch to figure that no Tevinters had found the body simply because no one had thought to look there. However, once you were in the dungeon proper and passed a few more corpses in a hallway, you squinted your eyes.

Kneeling down, you checked the neck and found the vertebrae there cracked as you'd expected. "Okay, I understand not being surprised by the presence of bodies after finding out your castle was infiltrated, but blatantly leaving the dead where they fall? _Inside_ a dwelling? That doesn't make sense. One would think that they'd dispose of the bodies on sanitation alone. No one wants a rotting corpse in their basement."

"M-maybe they haven't come down here yet?" You'd been thinking out loud and hadn't expected a response, so when your injured companion gave you one, you were a little startled.

You frowned. "If they were going to put Alan and the others in the cells, they had to. Main party plus twenty-odd scouts—they'd need all these cells if they were going to hold everyone, and too many of them are empty. They would have seen the bodies, anyway."

Will gave a shaky shrug and said, "Do you think…think they could have escaped?" If anything, the question made your frown deepen.

"If they escaped, where are they? No," you shook your head. "They're keeping them all together."

The boy's already wide, watery eyes got even wider as he gaped at you. "Together? Like for some sort of mass interrogation?" Brow quirked, you made a mental note to talk to Leliana about sending novices on sensitive missions. Not only was his inexperience glaringly obvious, but the kid couldn't have been older than sixteen, seventeen at the most. Sure, life could be hard for someone of mixed race a-la-Will, but he had no business being in the field like this. There were plenty of places back in Haven that could have taken him.

"Let's hope Alexius is stupid enough to keep them for a mass interrogation," you said slowly because, honestly, a mass interrogation was a wildly fabricated story just waiting to happen and anyone who thought otherwise was a moron, "and not because they're a blood source." Just when you thought Will couldn't get any paler, he did. Seriously, was snow this white? You didn't think so. Maybe it was your eyes. Yes, pun intended.

"B-blood source?" _Oookay_ , you thought, gripping him firmly on the shoulder and steering him along. _Let's stop thinking out loud around the novice, shall we?_

You grimaced. "Uh, don't worry about it, kid. I'm…probably wrong. Maybe they're in the rooms. We should check the rooms." That even sounded weak to you. Alexius would _definitely_ keep skilled prisoners in unsecured guest and personal chambers. Yeah. Totally.

Will didn't respond, which was probably for the best. When it came to comforting people, you had a chronic foot-in-mouth issue that just got worse the more you talked.

More hallways and more Venatori bodies followed through to the courtyard, which was deserted. You were on alert now, crouching and urging Will to do the same with daggers out and at the ready. Bodies being left, fine, maybe they hadn't seen them yet. But Alexius had a sizeable number of guards with him in the throne room from what Will had said. Take a few as casualties, and that still potentially left enough for a few light sweeps for any reinforcements and posts around the main entrance. That there were none was entirely too left of field.

It either meant that they were off doing something else, or it meant that Alexius and his Venatori were so confident in being able to handle any backup that they didn't feel patrols or postings necessary. You didn't like either option, but the second one actually worried you more than the former. If they were that cocky, then it was for a good reason. In the castle, the Venatori had the home advantage. They knew beyond a shadow of a doubt every nook and cranny and mouse hole in the place, whereas you had only as good an idea as informants could give you. Informants who probably hadn't done as thorough a check as those that worked for the other side.

The Inquisition was working on fractured mapping whereas Alexius was working on Imperial concrete threaded with steel and moonstone. You had to poke them where they weren't expecting it and _make_ a fault before they expounded on yours.

So that's why you motioned for Will to stay put in the courtyard despite his vehement protests and took to scaling the walls. The perfect place to set up an ambush would be inside or near to the front door. It was so obvious, no one would expect someone to be dumb enough to try setting one there—reverse logic, you supposed.

Next to an upper story window, however? Redcliffe was thought to be impenetrable, but where the walls had once been smooth, time and neglect had weathered the stone into decent handholds. The castle wall itself prevented people from getting in well enough, but once someone was in the courtyard, a bit of acrobatics, a good "eye" for texture, and some experience could take care of the rest.

Getting into an empty bedroom hadn't taken you more than fifteen minutes, but it had already been about two hours since you felt that burst of magic. To say you weren't exactly optimistic on the best of days was an understatement, but you were working with too many unknown variables to be confident that things would end all hunky-dory. Where were Alan and the others? More importantly, why were they not in the dungeons and what was being done to them? Had they been split up? If so, again, where were they? How were they separated? Who was placed where? Why?

You didn't take the main entrance into the throne room or even get close to it, for that matter—that would have been suicide. Nobility didn't like their servants to be noticeable during proceedings. Even if a family was lenient enough to allow their servants to casually use front entrances, if something important was going on in a room such as a war council or an audience, then most structures in Ferelden had a complex web of servant's tunnels so as to keep them out of sight and out of mind. The same had been done in Cyrodiil, High Rock, Alinor, and to an extent in Morrowind. In Thedas, it was a common practice of Nevarran, Orlesian, Fereldan, and Free Marches nobility; although you were pretty sure it had begun in Tevinter and then tapered out as showing off slaves became more important as a display of wealth. Having them work behind the scenes sort of undermined that, you supposed.

So the lack of slaves dead in the halls was strange, as well. Alexius was a member of the Magisterium, albeit not a major player. Still, the man owned slaves. There was no getting around it—if he wanted to hold onto his status, he had them. And no self-respecting Magister would travel to a foreign country on business or otherwise without taking part of his household staff with him; a staff that either included or was primarily slave-driven. Alexius wouldn't have made use of the servant's tunnels, and instead as per Tevinter custom, his slaves and servants would have freely wandered the halls. The mages were ostensibly indentured, yes, but that was after he arrived and he wouldn't have used them in the "household" anyway to keep up pretenses—"indentureds" were strictly for military or government work to pay off owed debts, not gain citizenship. That Fiona fell for the ruse spoke paragraphs of her desperation, but you digressed.

Alexius would have had slaves for the trip to Ferelden. Inquisition forces would not have risked sparing any of them due to threat of what your childhood healing instructor had called trauma bonding—captives, specifically slaves, would adapt and vehemently protect their captors to try protecting themselves. A raid several hundred years ago in Morrowind had Argonian slaves violently attacking the Shadowscale units hired to free them because they'd emotionally submitted to their owners in order to survive and were adamant in defending their masters. According to Bull, it was also common with the slaves of deceased Tevinter slaveholders in Seheron. One of his many scars had come from a slave furious her master had been slain and terrified that she would somehow be punished if she didn't attempt to get retribution.

It was also plausible that Alexius would have kept vital members of the Arl's staff after forcing Teagan to leave. People who had prior knowledge on running this particular household with its layout and infrastructure, as well as understanding of what systems of management worked best were valuable. He would have kept a few to teach and supervise the be staff, and they certainly would have been expressly forbidden from using the tunnels to traverse. What better show of power was there than not only usurping your enemy, but stealing his household? Teagan's servants would have been on display, and it's unlikely the scouts would have known enough or been willing to risk leaving _them_ alive, either.

Yet evidence of either slaves or appropriated help were suspiciously absent. In fact, the whole castle barely felt lived-in. To you, that screamed ambush. And ambush, in turn, either meant well-hidden or obviously placed in hopes of tripping someone up. Alexius had seemed the type to put a trap in a clichéd location just to gloat when someone fell for it _thinking_ it was too obvious.

Servants' tunnels it was.

The floors were cold, the air was musty and damp, and the path from a supply closet to the main hall three floors below was confusing. You had to practically walk through five rooms and backtrack twice when you unintentionally landed in the buttery before you managed to figure it out. You tipped your hats to Teagan's servants for traversing the bloody thing every day—they were more directionally-gifted than you. And probably not blind, but that was beside the point.

Curiously, you hit a dead end. The wall itself was solid, but you could feel a seam and a lever, so you figured it was a hidden door. Just as well—you could hear raised voices coming from the other side. You'd found the throne room.

" _Where_?" growled a voice you didn't quite recognize. It was snivel-y and deep, oddly threatening for its characteristics. It was also a male voice. Whimpering followed along with some metal-on-metal that could mean plate armor or a blade. Neither was reassuring.

You thought you heard a huff. "We have already told you. We don't know." That was Solas. Why was Solas answering? If anyone would be answering any questions (and you were sure you'd laugh later at the irony of this sounding like a mass interrogation later), it would be Alan. Him not doing so either meant he was incapacitated or not in the room, and you shuddered to think about either situation.

It sounded…you strained your ears, but couldn't tell through the stone if that had been a slap or a full-on hit. Either way, you winced sympathetically. "They seem to be… _stubborn_." Alexius grumbled. Footsteps paced, but you couldn't tell who. Perhaps the first man? Maybe a guard?

"It's of little consequence," the first speaker brushed off with the casual nature of someone discussing the weather fouling. "I can find what I wish on my own well enough. Extracting the information was purely for their benefit. Something their leaders apparently care little for."

A commotion began almost immediately, protests that sounded like they were telling someone to sit back down. "Camp!" cried another unfamiliar voice. "Back at camp! That's what you wanted, isn't it?"

" _Sian!_ " The hissed admonishment was met with a biting retort you couldn't quite make out, but it didn't sound pleasant. Not that it mattered—your stomach had already dropped into your boots. Camp. The only things left behind at camp had been an unmarked map, Saffron, and you. Whatever this man wanted was one of the three, and you doubted he wanted the horse and map to go adventuring.

Slow, methodical steps came ever-so-slightly closer. "So someone speaks up! But are you telling the truth or simply saying what I want to hear?" No Alexius. That was odd. Wasn't he in charge of this whole mess? Why was he taking such a backseat and letting this new person make demands, ask questions? Alexius wasn't working alone, but you hadn't thought he was a follower.

"No, it's true! She and the Herald had a fight, and she stayed at camp!" Yep, definitely talking about you. You started mentally checking through a list of enemies, but it was useless. You couldn't recognize the person speaking (though something was nagging at you), and that list was long. Really long.

The steps paused and then faltered like the person was dramatically turning around. "Hmm. Can any of you confirm this?" A few murmurs, but those were quickly silenced. " _Ah!_ No. I was addressing _them_." You assumed he meant the inner circle because after several seconds of stubborn silence, a sigh was breathed and Blackwall spoke.

"The lad's not lying," grumbled the warrior. Someone nudged him.

Mystery Man, however, laughed. "Oh, he is, but not intentionally. I commend you, Ser Warden, for defending one of your own. Newly minted within the organization and already the sense of comradery is astounding. It is an exceedingly rare trait for your kind."

" _Your kind_ " implied non-human. That was good. That was _something_ at least. And comradery…dwarven? No, if you were hearing things right, then the gait was too wide. He was too tall.

Blackwall growled, "Like honor is to yours?"

"I don't know. Let us ask your broker, shall we?" Another turn, towards your pseudo-hiding place this time. "Come on, now. I can't imagine you being able to hear much behind that wall." Ice ran through your veins, and you froze up. How had he…? This was impossible.

 _Well, not quite_ , your brain supplied. _He was looking for you. A trap isn't too far-fetched. He knew you'd come after them. He even sent you a guide._

And you promptly cursed yourself for being so gullible. _Will_. Will was too young to be a scout, but he wasn't too young to be a slave. You were too concerned with Alan being captured that you hadn't stopped to think that _of course_ paranoid, crazily-experienced Leliana wouldn't have sent a rookie _that young_ on such an important mission, not even as training. This was sensitive. She, of all people, knew that. No risks of danger were taken with Alan's life anyway. With it so, you hadn't stopped to remember the very fact.

You also hadn't stopped to remember that no one with Will's voice or mixed heritage had been at camp or sent to the mine.

You'd been a _fool_.

So it was that anger began to melt the fear, and a steady hand nudged the latch and shoved the brick to swing on its hinges.

Nothing was said as two sets of hands gripped your elbows and dragged you through the sea of people you could now hear more clearly. There shouldn't have been this many people. You didn't struggle or protest as they led you forward, but you could feel the eyes on you. Not all of the stares were good, and the few that were felt undyingly curious. You heard Varric try to say something, but he was quickly silenced. No one in the "crowd" tried speaking after that.

A hand touching the hollow of your throat stopped your progression. You stayed still as a statue, face pointing defiantly ahead and hoping that the gaping black slits your mask called eyes was unnerving whoever was in front of you.

At least, you stayed still until a cold fingertip managed to weasel its way under the wrappings around your throat. "What in—get your hands off of me! What are you _doing_?" Your eyes involuntarily squeezed shut as you fought, but the guards holding you were strong and weren't letting you budge.

The man's voice carried a heavy edge of disappointment. "I'm distraught you don't recognize me. I thought I left a hint, but you didn't even pick up on _that_."

"What hint?" Growling, you tried kicking a leg out, only to be met with air. Great. "I don't know you!"

He sighed like dealing with a disobedient child. Honestly, that's what you felt like at the moment. " _The glyph!_ You didn't recognize my magic. You _always_ recognize my magic." That ward…that  _Daedric_ ward?

You immediately stopped struggling. "That was… You're from… _Who the fuck a—_?" Opening your eyes, you felt like you entered a nightmare.

There were no more words because standing in front of you was the man who had ruined everything. Standing in front of you was the man who had made every promise to your face while simultaneously working the knife millimeter by millimeter into your back. And he did it in such a way you thought it was good for you. In front of you was the man who had unequivocally and undeniably betrayed you, in every fiber of your being.

If you weren't responsible for what happened to Nirn, then this man, this _monster_ , was.

There were no more _words_ , but you managed to fit all of the questions and pain and _anger_ into a name. A single name. A single plea. "Ondolemar?"

Something hit the unguarded back of your head, and all you knew was silence.

* * *

" _The saddest thing about betrayal is that it never comes from your enemies._ "

-Unknown

* * *

 


	19. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which questions are a thing and answers are...kind of a thing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow. Two in less than a week? I'm on a roll. Probably because this is a part I've been wanting to write for a while. Meh.
> 
> I've had a bit of a rough week, too. Just...yeah. That moment when you realize how two-faced your own family can be is rather quite draining. Anyway, this is another shorter one, but I feel like these are kind of awkward cut-off points where it's weird to just tack on another scene simply because of the flood of information and plot. I dunno. Hopefully, these'll start beefing up again once we get past the nitty-gritty stuff. Well, ENJOY!
> 
> Oh, and the song I'm quoting? If you want to understand the relationship between Ondolemar and Lys, listen to it. I literally wrote the aspects of their relationship out while listening to that song, and it inspired them more than I had originally intended. Plus, good song.

* * *

" _Sometimes before it gets better,  
_ _The darkness gets bigger.  
_ _The person that you'd take a bullet for is behind the trigger._ "

-Fall Out Boy, " _Miss Missing You_ "

* * *

_**~Thedas – 9:41 Dragon~** _

* * *

**Undilar had once given you the sage nugget of wisdom** after a particularly nasty fight you'd gotten into as a teenager that being knocked unconscious was karma for doing something stupid to warrant it. Not because passing out was difficult, but because waking up afterwards was usually quite the miserable affair. Be it from a blow to the head, weakness from other injuries, too much to drink, et cetera, a headache of crippling proportions tended to follow close behind and make one regret every life decision one had ever made. Waking up this time was no different.

Except you weren't quite sure what your headache and nausea this time 'round was karma for—in this particular scenario, there were plenty of possibilities. They ranged from letting your guard down in the moment to actually trusting the sleazy, backstabbing, good-for-nothing, prissy, two-faced, lying, son-of-a-horker in the first place. If Falion could see you now, he'd be chanting a smug mantra of "I told you so" at just the right volume so as to aggravate the pounding behind your eyes and along the back of your skull.

Or maybe it all amounted to wrong place, wrong time. That was in a sense how you'd met Ondolemar, or at least made him resent you so much that he decided to play a triple agent.

Much as you liked to convince yourself that your excommunication from the Temple at fifteen was a direct result of mouthing off to a Thalmor authority, that event was less singular and more a straw-that-broke-the-guar's-back kind of thing. Being a rebellious little brat contributed, but most of it was that you had overheard something you weren't supposed to when you were around six years old. Better yet, you overheard something you weren't supposed to and then, eleven years after being sworn to secrecy on the matter, told the one person who under no circumstances was ever supposed to know what you knew. Ever.

You were a little girl twenty-eight years ago, running mischievously around the undercroft of the Temple to Auri-El in a well-practiced routine of attempting to avoid your lessons. You hadn't meant to, but after sneaking food from the kitchens and hiding in an empty storage cupboard in a room no one ever used, you accidentally overheard an argument between Undilar and the head priest.

Well, in actuality, your guardian was being scolded. You'd been curious. Undilar scolded you for plenty of things, but your six-year-old self hadn't been aware that adults could get in trouble, too. You wanted to know why!

What you overheard had definitely not been expected. Undilar had joined the clergy later in life than was typical, somewhere in his late teens and about five years before you had been brought to the Temple. Most joined as children and were either orphans or tributes from poor farmers. Full priests, like Undilar, took stricter vows than laymen, one of which was a rather clear vow of chastity.

You couldn't really imagine it, but it turns out Undilar had been a bit rebellious himself when he was younger. He broke his vows and dallied with a minor noblewoman who wound up bearing a child. She had been unwed at the time, so it didn't take much to figure out that the infant probably belonged to the priest she saw for confession far more frequently than necessary. Which was a good thing considering the woman died in childbirth. The remaining family refused to care for a potentially impure bastard, and so it was legally left an orphan as Undilar couldn't technically have right of custody. _Gotta love selective breeding programs,_ you thought with a sneer.

Only ordained priests knew that the baby was the illegitimate offspring of one of their own—the more plentiful laymen and women had been none the wiser. The head priest had only allowed the child to be taken in by the Temple if Undilar never made any attempts to acknowledge it as his own and had limited interaction. To this day, you didn't know why Undilar chose his already broken vows instead of leaving to raise his flesh and blood, but he did. And he stalwartly kept to his promise, never saying more than five words to his son in the fifteen years you were there.

Two years later, and you arrived, a tiny squalling bundle abandoned on the side of the road like trash. You were assigned Undilar as your guardian, and he'd named you Vaelyswen, meaning something along the lines of " _white petal_ ", after the single stalk of amaryllis flowers amidst the weeds you'd been found beneath. Every ounce of ignored paternal instinct had been poured into raising you, and you had no idea how he managed to do that and simultaneously ignore his biological son not two feet away.

You and Ondolemar had been best friends, after all, despite the age difference—it was hard to ignore him.

Undilar had known you were hiding in the room and called you out after the head priest had left. He swore you to keep quiet on what you'd heard, and you remembered agreeing only because of how sad he looked. You didn't realize until years later the implications. Something had forced his hand on never being able to acknowledge his son, and the fact that he couldn't tore him up inside. Maybe you'd never know what exactly that something was, but your respect never wavered for the man and you had kept your silence as well as you were able. Your guardian, though, had been able to see that you and his son were good friends and was adamant that you didn't have to stop associating with Ondolemar just because he couldn't.

In the end, you figured it was a bad call. As teenagers, the two of you had been involved romantically for a time. It was quickly swept under the rug as was everything else the priests deemed unsavory considering you were the mouthy nonconformist who fell short of every standard and Ondolemar was pegged early for a surely prestigious and distinguished political career that you would definitely ruin. That hadn't stopped you, just made you sneakier, but it was what spurred you to tell Ondolemar that Undilar was his father.

The actual telling was ultimately accidental, blurted during an argument as a reason for the disapproval, and Ondolemar had avoided you after that. You suspected it was jealousy and couldn't blame him. As every orphan in that Temple did, he had vocalized countless times his desire to know his parents, to have a family. To find out so suddenly that not only had his father been with him all these years and knowingly _ignored_ him, but that the very same parent had raised and loved another child as his own? And that the adopted child was also his lover, known this, and had _kept_ it from him for over a decade? You weren't stupid. You realized how much that had to have hurt.

It was also a month later that you'd been kicked out, and you had your suspicions that Ondolemar had gone to the head priest, his own guardian, in his confusion. The clergy had all been acting strangely a few weeks before, watching you far too closely, and Undilar had uncharacteristically warned you to be mindful what you did around the others. You hadn't listened, of course, not realizing that they were looking for a reason to kick you or Undilar out until you had already been halfway to the Imperial City. You never found out of they managed to pin Undilar for anything, but it wasn't a secret that you were an easier target than him.

Seven and a half years later, you ran into Ondolemar in Markarth. He'd been…overjoyed to see you, and you admitted to yourself that you had missed him. Holding a high-ranking position within the Thalmor (much as he groused about being in Markarth, the position was technically as an ambassador to the Jarl's court and one of honor), he had actually been the one to bring up the idea of spying for you. You hadn't questioned it. Why would you? The man you loved had reassured you that he held no more ill-feelings—it hadn't been you fault that Undilar had done what he had done, he claimed. You had been a child told to keep a secret by an authority. Of _course_ you were going to follow, and it also wasn't like you could control what your guardian did or didn't do. He agreed it hadn't been your fault and apologized for ever having thought it. He'd just been confused.

You'd believed him. But you'd been wrong.

Even if he had been telling the truth, that didn't change the fact that at the last, vital moment, he brought Thalmor right to you. He led to you being captured and taken to that mountain top. He was responsible for the Thalmor gaining the knowledge and power they needed to finally carry out their goals, knowledge you and your group had kept from them. He had been the one to betray you. Whether it was out of hate, guilt, fear, a mistake, or whatever excuse could be fabricated, you didn't care. You wanted the slimy bastard to rot in Oblivion for what he did, and you'd gladly send himself there yourself.

An eye for an eye may leave the whole world blind, but shit—what could you lose? _Your_ eye? Revenge had already blinded you. A little more wouldn't hurt.

When you finally pulled yourself fully from the dregs of unconsciousness, you realized that you were back in Redcliffe's dungeons. Particularly you were in an interrogation chamber. Or, in other less political terms, it was a torture chamber. Had you not known better, you'd have thought by all the aching in your joints that they'd started on you prematurely. However, you knew Ondolemar, if not the rumors around Tevinter torture methods. They wanted you awake.

A brief moment was spent wondering about the others, but you didn't get much chance to ponder if they were alright before someone noisily entered the room. From the footsteps, they were a slight build, so you suspected they were being loud for your benefit. He didn't speak, just pulled up a chair and stared at you, so you also suspected it was probably the subject of your loathing.

You didn't open your eyes. You could feel the cold slab of metal you were chained to and could tell that you'd been changed into a short sleeved tunic, divested of anything that would hide your appearance. With so much skin contact on something lacking the enchantments you kept on clothes to prevent the touch-sight from being overwhelming, you knew you'd have a frighteningly clear view of the room if you were to look. So you didn't. You didn't want to see him, nor did you want to look and _not_ see him. So you didn't.

"I know you're awake," he said after a few more awkward minutes. Ignoring the jolt of old happiness and fresh hurt that bubbled up when Ondolemar's voice washed over you took more effort than you were prepared for. On some level, this disgusted you. You thought you were past this.

It seemed he didn't like you not answering. "Stop being childish, Vaelyswen. It doesn't become you." Oh, childish, were you? Defiantly, you cracked a squinting eye open against the agony that was torchlight, and then another, before sending him the harshest glare you could manage. A rueful grin just split his lips in two.

"There are those eyes of yours!" he cooed, almost fascinated in a sick kind of way. His posture, too, was just...all wrong. You outwardly remained as impassive as you could, but somewhere in the mess of emotions creating a hurricane in your mind, you wondered just what had caused this once proud mer to spiral so much. He had never been so...unhinged. That it was obvious this quickly was disconcerting. "Shame what happened to them, you know. They were always your best feature."

You croaked around a heavy, groggy tongue, "What d'you want?" Wide-eyed in mocking affront, Ondolemar leaned heavily back in his chair.

"What do I want?" He mimicked, spreading his arms. "A good many things. Eternity. Order, to name a few."

Stare not wavering, you eyed him with disbelief. "Why help the Venatori?" You winced as your head throbbed despite your best efforts. How hard had you been hit? Did they use a bloody sledgehammer?

The other Altmer just smirked. "Once a rebel, always a rebel. Don't you understand how interrogations work, my dear? Yet here you are asking all the questions!"

"Then ask," you muttered, breaking your stare to gaze instead at the rafters. He was the reason you hated that nickname. "Not playin' games."

Silence dragged on, but you could feel Ondolemar's eyes boring into your skin. If he didn't want you to voice the thousands of questions you had boiling over for eleven years, then fine. You wouldn't speak at all, if that's what this came to. He wasn't going to lead you around in circles for the fun of it. There would be no novelty had in your confusion even if you had to break your mind yourself.

You gave him what he wanted once, the forgiveness. Never again.

"Very well then," hummed the Thalmor finally. His stance in the chair turned more casual, causing the black robes he was draped in to sprawl across the floor in careless waves of wool and velvet. They curiously weren't Thalmor robes, nor Venatori, nor of the anonymous cultists. "What do _you_ want, Vae?"

You sneered. "Oh, lots. Peace. Rest. _To name a few._ " The jab caused Ondolemar to frown.

"And you think you'll find that _here_?" He gestured to the room, but you knew he was referencing the whole of Thedas.

"Coulda' back n' Skyrim." The bite in your voice was bitter and harsh. "Had here, 'fore this mess."

His responding laugh was mocking, disbelieving, and astounded all rolled into one. "Did you, really, though? You can't show a _hand_ , let alone your _face_! The closest things to our kind are reviled as vermin. No, so long as we remain, there is no _peace_. No _rest_. No _order_. Eternity was lost to this cesspit as it was to ours. Because of _humans_ — _as it was to ours_."

"Yours."

Mouth open to continue his diatribe, Ondolemar stopped and tilted his head. "I'm sorry?"

"' _Our kind_ '?" You laughed roughly. "Y'mean _your_ kind. Don't lump me with you. 'M not like that."

He scoffed condescendingly. "You can't change what you are. What _we_ are."

"An' just what _is_ that, huh?" you laughed again, more like cackled, as your headache tried to get incrementally worse. "Weird skin and pointy ears? Wide-eyed and tall?"

Ondolemar sniffed with some disdain carefully buried behind his eyes. "Superior, of course." You almost couldn't believe it. Even before, when he'd betrayed you, he hadn't put so much stock in this…this… _propaganda_ he was spewing. But you could tell it wasn't an act. He truly had conviction in what he was saying, something he'd lacked in spades before.

 _Son of a bitch_ … "You're insane." It wasn't an accusation. It was an observation. He didn't even look fazed at it, either-just continued to stare at you with those eyes blown open too wide, that look of simultaneous adoration and hatred and something else you couldn't place.

When he didn't answer or make any attempts to move, you dared lock eyes with him again. You searched and regretfully found what you were looking for. "Why'd you do it?"

"Do what?"

"Try summonin' Hermaeus Mora?" the slurring from grogginess was beginning to ebb away, thankfully. "Did you think he could…send you back?"

Predictably, his face clammed up and he turned suspicious too quickly. "How do you figure that, now?"

You peeled your gaze away from his and back to the ceiling. Staring at the ceiling as opposed to him would make it bearable. Probably. "Black spots in the sclera. Classic sign of exposure to Mora. Mild signs of insanity. By the spots, you weren't in contact with him long enough to develop that, though. What was it for?"

"It didn't turn out as it should have."

"So you wanted to fix your own gods damned mistake," you said, sighing. "Or, better yet, you wanted to know why it didn't work. So you asked Mora. You lot managed to get rid of Nirn, but not Mundus like you wanted. Some if not everybody from Nirn was displaced because you weren't counting on there actually being other worlds for them to be displaced _to_. Now you're…what…working with the people who created the Breach? To finish what you started?"

As each word left your mouth, Ondolemar got angrier. Angrier until he finally stood from his chair, walked over to where you were chained, and roughly took your jaw in his hand. You gasped at the shock, but made sure to defiantly stare him down. He wasn't going to break you. Not again. He needed to see that.

" _Stop talking_!" he hissed, borderline manic. "You know _nothing!_ The Venatori are just _puppets_ to the Elder One." There it was again, Elder One. Those lyrium-infected Templars had said the same thing…was this Elder One the person responsible for the Breach? You filed the name away. Something told you it would be important.

"But you're not Venatori," you said. "Alexius was deferring to you, yes, but you're not wearing the robes. If he deferred because you're higher in authority, then why aren't you—?" His grip tightened, effectively silencing you. He didn't seem to like it when the gears in your head turned too close to the truth.

"We _control_ the Venatori!" Guttural indignity etched lines on the fine angles of Ondolemar's face and made the black in his eyes stand out.

You choked, "And the Elder One controls you?" Whether it was the question or the fact that your lips were probably turning ashen from lack of oxygen, the other elf released his hold on you in increments. You greedily sucked in air, but didn't make any other indication that your former lover strangling you in a fit of rage had rattled you. Which it had. Ondolemar was forced to act the part as a Thalmor agent, but he had never been a violent person. The whole gambit of personality switches he had displayed in the past ten minutes were a complete one-eighty to who he was. Or, who you thought he was. Contact with Hermaeus Mora would not have done this to such an extent. There was more going on than you could see.

His head was bowed as he took several steps back. You thought you saw his hands shaking, but he hid them in the folds of his robes before you could get a good enough look. "You don't have foresight here. Not anymore. You don't know what you're talking about." Curiously, it sounded like he was saying that more to convince himself than you. You were achingly aware every day that you didn't See anymore. Your developing visions as a young adult had been part of Idgrod's motive for taking you in, and she helped you hone the gift until you had almost complete control over it. You could see ambushes before they happened, predict troop movements with a decent level of accuracy—it was why she put you in charge.

But you hadn't Seen since coming to Thedas. And you wanted to know how Ondolemar knew that.

"I never needed foresight to put the pieces together," you murmured softly. "You know that." This time, it was Ondolemar refusing to meet your eyes out speak, so you decided to test the proverbial waters.

"The Venatori control the mages, and you control the Venatori. By you, I'm assuming you mean...Thalmor? Or what's left of you. However, this Elder One. You're _not_ controlled by him. You only mentioned him when I insinuated that the Venatori alone were behind the Breach. You claimed they're his puppets but also that _you_ control them as well. The only way, then, for you to run the puppets is to control the puppet master. Whatever group you're running, the Elder One doesn't control you. You control _him_."

A smirk snaked its way onto his face. "You're close. And you're right, you always were perceptive. But you're wrong about who we are." A thin hand reached into his collar to pull out a familiar dragon pendant dangling on an unassuming brown cord. "I'm curious if you can figure it out before the week is up. Shall we find out?" He let it drop to rest atop his robes, grinning slyly before turning and walking out of the room without another word.

* * *

 **Other than a lump on the back of your head and probably a bruised larynx** , you surprisingly didn't receive any more injuries before two guards removed you from the table and unceremoniously tossed you into a tiny cell. You kept your eyes closed the whole way and even after they left you in there because your eyes _hurt_. Even though you did use them, it was in a limited fashion because it had to be. As Ondolemar had so graciously pointed out, you had to keep yourself covered. Your sight worked better via direct contact with skin, and the more contact there was, the farther and better you could see. Fabric limited that, and you'd placed the enchantments on your clothes so that the little bit you could see through cloth wouldn't distract you so much. You couldn't function by either relying on bad vision or trying to ignore what there was. It was one or the other, and you couldn't exactly walk around barefoot in hacked off breeches and a tank top. So you had chosen to barely use it at all.

You heard the soldiers leave the cell block, probably to stand guard outside the door, and forced yourself into a sitting position. Eyes still squeezed shut, you ran a shaking hand through your hair to measure the severity of the knot swelling on your skull (not too bad), and then brought the limb to flop in your lap. You glared at it as if it had offended you by trembling. In a way, it had. The whole conversation with Ondolemar had been more nerve wracking than you let on. Honestly, probably one of the more frightening conversations you'd had in a while.

At least, you thought so until a voice from somewhere across the block called out. "Wait… _Prowler_?"

_Shit and two is eight—dammit Tethras!_

"Not a word, dwarf." A whisper was about all you could manage around the scratchiness. "Not a single, bloody word or I swear on Mehrunes Dagon's right arms, I will find a way out of this cell and _end_ you."

"Right _arms_?"

"He has four—long story," at his mumble of approval, you actually pried your eyes open and sent him a glare. "One I'm _not_ telling right now, thank you."

However, it didn't have the intended response. Instead, his eyes were blown wide, brows cringing together. " _Shit_ , Lys, your eyes—!"

You cut him off. "Yes, I'm well aware."

"What did they do to you? We knew they took you off so that robed guy could talk to you, but we didn't really know why…" You shrugged, shuffling over to the bars so you could grip them. Varric was in the cell directly across from yours, and it appeared from your vantage point at least that there was no one else in the block. Odd.

"Other than Ondolemar trying to choke me at one point, nothing."

He looked downright confused as he gripped the bars to his own cell. "Wait, so you've always been…?"

"Blind? Yes."

"You're not acting like any blind person I've ever known."

You raised a brow. "Known a lot of blind people, have you?" The deflection was poor. You knew exactly what he was referencing—the fact that you were openly making eye contact with him, that your eyes weren't blankly staring off into some corner of space. Even though they were filmed over from disuse, your eyes weren't unfocused.

"A few," Varric replied, obviously humoring you despite the humorless situation. "Please don't tell me it's some magic-y shit."

"It's not any ' _magic-y shit_ '," you said, then paused a moment and amended, "Probably." And you grinned because while you may not have particularly been fond of the dwarf due to his connections, the banter was almost therapeutic after seeing Ondolemar. After all of the revelations that came with it.

 _You weren't alone here_.

Shockingly, that sentiment wasn't nearly as comforting as you had expected it to be.

Finally, you took pity on the poor dwarf and elaborated. "I've been blind for eleven years. Mostly, anyway. I don't exactly know how, but if I have skin contact with an object, I can sort of see it and some of what surrounds it. The more skin is touching, the more I can see."

"Ah," he hummed. "I can see how that would…be a problem. Maybe I should change your nickname to ' _Goldie_ '. What do you think?"

"I think I will find something sharp to murder you with." Shaking your head, you let all vestiges of humor dissipate. "What happened?"

Growing serious now, the archer scrubbed a bruised hand along his face. "Where to start? Ambush worked. Alexius started rambling about some Elder One after Sparkler said some stuff. Then he said something about Green being a mistake, started casting some of his time magic, Sparkler disrupted it, and then he and Alan just…vanished."

Your eyes about bugged out of your head. " _Vanished_?!" To your dismay, Varric only nodded.

"Yeah," he mumbled. "I dunno, maybe they're still alive somewhere, but shit—I don't know. I've seen too many spells make someone disappear. They don't reappear very often."

"What about after? Why'd you all get rounded up in that room?"

"Turns out Alexius had reinforcements. That Ondo guy. Bunch of those cultist freaks you and Chuckles ran into in that mine came pouring out of those servant tunnels you used. Rounded all of us up before we could really do much about it. That guy just took charge, started asking where you were. He forced one of the younger kids to take a scout's armor and go find you, lure you here. Guess it worked." _Will_ , you thought, gritting your teeth.

Varric continued, "We didn't know what he was. Bunch of the scouts thought he was possessed, but Chuckles I guess could tell he wasn't. I don't know how that shit works. But he kept demanding where you were, and when we asked him what in Andraste's flaming knickers he was, he kept saying that we should ask you when you showed up. He was pretty sure you would. Sounded like he knew you." The rogue sent you a meaningful look.

You gave him the condensed version. If you were right, there would be plenty of time for the extended one later. It felt like you were going to be here for a while. "I'm from another world. I was raised in a Temple by a priest named Undilar. Ondolemar was raised there, too. We were good friends, I found out when I was a child that Undilar was actually Ondolemar's biological father but was forbidden from acknowledging him. Accidentally told him years later, he got pissed, I got kicked out of the Temple, another several years later I ran into him again, he made me think things were good, then he stabbed me in the back and I ended up here."

Varric's look was a bit blank. "Damn."

You nodded. "Yeah."

"There's more to it than that," He said suspiciously.

"Later," you waved him off. "Where are the others? We need to figure out what to do from here." And so the two of you settled down to begin carefully plotting. Thankfully, the dwarf didn't attempt prying any further, but you knew that if you were going to be in the same block as him for the foreseeable future, then he wasn't going to let you dodge the question. He'd get bored eventually and bug you about it relentlessly.

For now, though, you were firmly in the realm of plans and prison breaks, so you decided to bask in the familiar territory while you could.

* * *

_In memory of Louis "Carl" Grover 5/23/29-8/10/16—you were the grandfather to me I otherwise would never have gotten to have. There are no words written or spoken that can accurately express just how much that means to me, how grateful I am to have known you, and how much I am going to miss you. I love you._

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So...did you see it coming? Huh? Huh? Huh? *grins like a maniac* I surprised myself deciding that not only was Ondolemar going to be romantically involved with Lys and betray her, but also that Undilar was going to be his father. I had a Darth Vader moment, methinks.
> 
> Those of you wanting Daedra to make an appearance? Oh, we're getting Daedra. We're so getting Daedra. But it's not who you're thinking.
> 
> R&R!  
> ~SurreptitiousFox


	20. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry this is late. It's been crazy, crazy hectic. I not only switched majors from history to sociology and added a criminology minor, I also found out a few weeks into this semester that I'm apparently president of my school's Model Arab League club (kind of a debate/international politics thing) and so have been...losing my mind. It's all good. Hopefully.
> 
> Anyway, this chapter was written through a block, so I'm sorry if it seems choppy or rushed or anything during certain parts. It's 3am here, so I'm almost positive I missed something while proofreading.
> 
> Anyway, enjoy!

* * *

"You may be deceived if you trust too much, but you will live in torment if you don't trust enough."

-Frank Crane

* * *

 _**~Thedas – 9:** _ _**42** _ _**Dragon~** _

* * *

**A week passed rather uneventfully.** And then two weeks, a month, two months, until you were sitting on month eight of captivity with no outward progress to show for it save some extra bruises and scrapes. You and Varric didn't know how, but Leliana had managed to set up some sort of escape plan from the outside several months back. There was no word on any other goings on of the outside word, nor when exactly this breakout was going to take place (all you got was a signal to follow from a planted guard neither of you ever saw again), and on top of that, you hadn't any idea where Solas and Blackwall were or if they had been contacted. The constant guard presence made that rather tricky. They could be dead and you'd be none the wiser.

Having been taught by Idgrod how to conduct your own interrogations from the captive's side of the table, you had expected the bi-weekly torture sessions to eventually give you some idea of what Ondolemar and Alexius were after. However, other than repeated questions by a faceless Venatori agent asking how Alan "knew about the ritual" at the Temple of Sacred Ashes, there was absolutely nothing up until they stopped bothering four months before. Ondolemar had made only a handful of appearances during your time in the chamber, and even that was only to stare impassively and to observe. What you'd extrapolated from his ramblings must have shaken him more than you thought. For all you knew, he was the one who told the interrogators to stick to the same monotonous question lest you draw secrets out of anything else. A smart move you supposed, if not utterly paranoid. It was just as well, considering their silence could tell just as much as their words.

Varric never said much about what happened when he was in those rooms other than confirm that he had been asked the same question. It didn't matter really if he preferred to fill your questioning glances with tall stories and funny anecdotes in place of answers. You let him ramble because you could tell what was done just by listening to how he moved afterwards. To a lesser extent, you could see it, and you couldn't blame him for wanting a distraction.

You may have harkened more during your time with Idgrod to use non-aggressive tactics when you had to question people, but that didn't mean you hadn't learned how to use them at all. Recognizing the marks of certain kinds of torture was a skill that didn't ever really go away. And maybe allowing the dwarf to lose himself in his stories instead of trying to figure out the nuances of this planned jailbreak you knew nothing about was irresponsible of you. Maybe coddling him as you were doing was a bit ridiculous—he was a grown adult and could take care of himself, had surely been through worse with Hawke. And besides that, it was months after they stopped taking him for interrogation, plenty of time to at least start to recover.

However, regardless of much you disliked him for apparently turning a blind eye to some of the Champion's less than savory methods, you were not as heartless as you liked people to think you were. You couldn't bring yourself to jar him back to reality, especially not after the red lyrium began growing inside his cell. With all it did to Kirkwall, seeing it had to have been rough.

Digressing, a routine of sorts had somewhat been formed with the guards. A meal was brought once a day, not the greatest quality and little more than scraps, but it was food so you and the dwarf took it without complaint. Twice a week, one of you alternately would be taken for questioning, the pattern you recognized as a Thalmor tactic based on the thinking that people tended to respond better to torture if they got some time to rest in between. Make the pain fresher by not giving them the opportunity to numb themselves to it quite so quickly. It was another psychological tactic to see on a comrade the pain that would be unavoidably inflicted on oneself. The Thalmor hadn't lost their love for mind games.

It was one of the rest days, sometime late in the afternoon, if not night perhaps. You were watching a sleeping Varric, able to sense more than see the crystals forming and growing underneath his skin. The lyrium hadn't spread to you quite yet—so far it was limited to Varric's side of the cell block, but it was only a matter of time. A part of not knowing how it would react to your physiology, to your magic, should it infect you was making the wariness of it more bitter. You were… _afraid_ , wishing Leliana would enact her plan sooner rather than later, if only so you would be spared exposure.

And then you were guilty because why were you hoping to be spared it and not cursing the spymaster's name for failing to be quicker, for _both_ your sakes? Physically, you may end up suffering more, you may not, but the dwarf had more scabs on his mind that red lyrium was ripping off and irritating. He arguably was suffering the worse of the draws.

 _Then_ you cursed your sympathy. Why should you care? He was associated with a person from a long list of those who were the _reason_ why you shouldn't give a damn. You joined Idgrod because it was the right thing to do, and then Ondolemar swiftly crushed that endeavor. You went with the Sabrae clan, cared for its members like family because they had cared for you, and then Hawke turned around and slaughtered them like animals, not even giving them a proper burial. And again, you joined the Inquisition because sealing the Breach was the right thing to do. And where had that gotten you? Tossed hopelessly in a cell by a resurrected nightmare from your past you hoped to never have to face, waiting to be corrupted and able to feel the Breach expanding by the day, the only hope of stopping it probably dead...

 _This_ was what caring got you. _This_ was what trusting got you—three walls, some bars, and little else.

"Hopes dashed, damned, decayed. Weighing the worth and wondering why it's weak." Startled at the voice coming from _behind_ you, you scrambled around only to come face to face with a rather large hat and wide, child-like blue eyes. "But it's only lacking because you _make_ it lacking. Your mind thinks the pain will be less that way. It isn't."

"What…?" Sputtering with your back against the bars, you conjured flames and held them ready. They were weak. Incremental as it was, you were already suffering from the collapse of the Veil, the outpouring of Aedric magic. "Who _are_ you?"

The boy—for that was what he seemed, a boy—blinked at you like he couldn't quite understand why you were asking the question you were asking. "My name is Cole. I came to help. Your hurts are loud, lusting for closure. It's worse with the Veil sundered. I was having trouble hearing you from Therinfal, writhing in red; I didn't mean to scare you."

Now _you_ blinked with no small level of confusion. "Therinfal? As in Templar-controlled Therinfal Redoubt? You...," and at this you grimaced as your mind tried to actually process the mess of (rather crafty) alliteration the kid was spewing, " _heard_ me all the way from there? What are you on about? How did you even get in here?" You would have called for the guards had you not been completely revolted at the idea of asking the vile creatures for help.

"Your hurts are loud," he said again cryptically, as if the phrase was more than sufficient to explain what he needed to explain.

You scrunched your brow up. "But what...?" A crash of a door sounded from down the hall, causing you to whirl towards the end of the block in a knee-jerk reaction. Cole remained unfazed, like he had expected the noise as a draft blew pale hair into pale eyes set in a pale face. You kept your gaze on the door to the cell block, debating on whether or not to rouse Varric.

The boy across from you said simply, "They're ready."

When you turned irritably to shout at him that he wasn't making sense, you were startled to find he was...gone. You furiously rubbed at your sore eye sockets, blinking back the fuzziness and pressing your hands and legs more firmly to the flagstones. However, the space remained empty where you swore there had just been someone. That was...could that have been...? Were your eyes finally starting to completely play tricks on you now?

 _SLAM!_ The door suddenly burst open in a frenzy. Your attention was jerked away from the back wall to face the figure hurrying into the room who you could actually see, so the disappearing Cole was further made weird. Varric leaped awake with a colorful curse that you couldn't help but second. Your other senses were dulling due to both the Breach and more frequent use of your eyesight, but you probably would have been at least tentatively aware of any commotions warranting such an entrance. The two of you had already been fed for the day, and you couldn't hear a riot.

Everything quickly spiraled into more confusion when the newcomer stopped just inside the threshold to regain his bearings. The child's build was a bit slighter than you remembered and even meeker, but the daggers were the same. The red hair was the same. The countenance was the same. You shot to your feet with dizzying speed. " _Will_?" You were less questioning and more accusing, untrusting. Dissociated he may have been, but Varric still had presence of mind enough to pick up on this, and he defensively pulled his hands away from the cell bars accordingly.

The half-elf, however, was trembling. He didn't answer right away. Not that it mattered—after his display at the windmill, you didn't trust that any face he wore was genuine. Will was likely a slave; you didn't dispute this. But you had seen and heard of slaves going to extraordinary measures to please their masters, and playing a game with captors wasn't necessarily above their repertoire.

"I—," he floundered for a moment, tone hushed. "I know you probably don't trust me."

" _Really_? Whatever gave you that idea?" you grit through your teeth. Varric resigned himself to watching the spectacle with his head bobbing back and forth between the two of you. If he recognized Will from those months ago, he didn't comment on it.

The half-elf winced. "I'm sorry! Really. I didn't have a choice then, and there's not much of one now! I _need_ you to trust me."

Coldly, you sneered, "Trust you about _what_?"

A scraped, bony hand shaking with either nerves or adrenalin slipped into a pocket and pulled something out in a clenched fist. Striking blue eyes were blown wide with whatever emotion was causing him to tremble as he took a few hesitant steps and offered what he was holding to you. For your part, you eyed him distrustfully. A flame was reignited and held ready in one hand, sputtering weakly, but you cautiously extended the other one to have a large, round-ish trinket dropped into your palm.

The flame cut out almost instantly as you observed what you had been given. It was a simple medallion in the shape of the Inquisition's crest, a flaming eye impaled by a sword cast in wrought iron. An identifying symbol. Your hazy eyes shot up to glower at the half-elf.

"Prowler?" Varric's voice was tentative, not wanting to interrupt but feeling your extended silence demanded it.

Will took a quick step back and nodded at you, ignoring the dwarf. "Look at the back." You flipped the heavy iron piece over and, after a few moments' scrutiny, found a small seam along the oval. Digging a chipped nail into it, you pried the back off to show a compartment within which rested a key.

A key.

A _bloody_ key.

Your eyes shot up again to stare at the slave, this time in confusion. "What's the meaning of this?" The blood on the metal was dry and flaking, but there was no mistaking that the key had blood on it at one time. None stained the clever container save bits that had fallen off within the compartment, but it was clear the thing, marked along the top with Redcliffe's symbol, was acquired in a struggle. Will, conversely, looked nothing like he had been in one.

"It should fit the locks," Will said nervously. He was alternating his attention between your frozen form and the door as if he expected something to happen but not sure from where it would come.

"Why?"

Varric, tired of being so blatantly disregarded, reached stubby hands out to curl around his cell bars. "She's got a point, Blue-Eyes. You're with Alexius." You shot him a glare. _For Gods' sakes, don't nickname the boy!_

Will let out a cross between a whine and a nervous whimper. "Because your spymaster asked me to!"

You started. " _Leliana_?!"

"Yes!" Will looked relieved his point was beginning to come across. "Her! I was promised freedom in exchange for joining the Inquisition and getting you four out of here. I don't expect you to forgive me, but if you're going to come, we need to leave _now_."

" _You're_ the signal." Realization dawned on you suddenly at Varric's little epiphany. You wanted to correct that the vanishing boy, Cole, had been the signal, but a part of you wanted to keep the blond a secret for now. An ace up your sleeve, if one would go so far as to call him that. There had obviously been some changes since you'd been gone from the outside world.

Will shuffled. "Er, yes, I suppose so. I was told to bring that to you, but we really need to get moving before the guard gets back. Your spymaster retrieved the mage and Warden already and is meeting us elsewhere." It was...such a gamble. You gripped the key tightly in your hand and studied Will carefully. His brown hair was a disheveled mess and he was wearing dirty, worn clothes typical for a slave or poorly treated servant. It was quite the contrast to the appropriated scout armor he had donned the last time you had seen the kid. He had lines on his face no child his age should ever have to earn, but there was no deception that you could see. Then again, you were essentially eleven years out of practice.

Varric sighed. "There _are_ simpler ways to trick us." You bit your lip and gnawed on it for a minute before heaving your own breath.

Shoulders slumped, you inserted the key into the lock. A few screaming hinges later, and you and the dwarf were free of your confines, though Varric was a little...glow-y from the lyrium exposure. Damn, you thought, it looked worse up close. And resisted any of your pitiful attempts to probe it with magic.

"If this is a trap..." Threat hanging in the air, you didn't need to finish as the slave nodded vigorously his understanding. Without another word, the three of you darted out into the abandoned, crumbling hallway.

* * *

 **You had a distinct feeling** that silence would have been preferable to the subtle humming that permeated the lyrium-infested dungeons of Redcliffe Castle. Long tendrils of angry, pulsing red crystals punched through the stones in random corners, crawled up like roots across broken flagstones, and reached into dark, abandoned cells as if searching for a corruptible presence that was no longer there. Disconcerting didn't even _begin_ to cover how unnerving walking through those corridors was. Varric was just as affected, if not more so, and Will looked depressingly numb to the whole thing.

There were, however, no guards patrolling the hallways. You didn't know why that was, but you could hazard a guess that it was Leliana's doing. If she was involving herself directly in this jailbreak attempt, then diverting the guards away from the cells would have been the first thing she would do if total subterfuge wouldn't work. It was part of the reason why the redhead terrified you so much—diversion was exactly what you would have done in her place after buying off a few insiders to coordinate the nitty-gritty details. She thought too much like yourself for comfort.

Varric had fingers tangled around your forearm, though whether it was for stability, guidance, or reassurance, you didn't know. You had explained that with so much skin bare, you could see relatively well if you put your mind to focusing on the task and didn't need a guide, but with all this lyrium around… Varric was a strong dwarf, but even the strong had their limits. He didn't show any signs of wanting to talk, either, so you geared yourself for being the mouthpiece between the two of you. "Has anything happened since we've been here that we should know about?"

Will didn't break his stride, just scoffed in a manner surprisingly derisive for a slave. "Should know or want to know? None of it is anything you _want_ to know."

"If we want to be able to help Leliana in any capacity on getting out of here, we should be informed," you grumbled, "pleasant truth or not."

Helping, Varric over a particularly large tendril of lyrium, you heard Will sigh from behind you. "It's bad. Very bad. Without the Herald to close the rifts, the Breach has spread a lot."

You nodded, conjuring another weak flame. "I could tell that much, it's screwing royally with my magic."

"Remind me later to ask you just how you have magic, anyway," muttered the dwarf suddenly, and you flashed him what you hoped was more of a cheeky grin and less a pained grimace. You never had explained that fully, had you?

"Didn't you know, Tethras? A magician never reveals her secrets."

Though he chuckled, his face still turned a little dark. "Yeah, I think those are what got us into this mess in the first place, Prowler." You smiled small. His point was clear—if maybe there had been better dialogue, better understanding between the Chantry and the mages, maybe there would never have been a rebellion in the first place. Then again, you were from a world where magic was just inherently understood as a natural part of things. Feared, maybe. But definitely not to the extent that it was in Thedas.

"I feel it was more miscommunication, but I digress." Nodding at Will, you let the adolescent peek cautiously around a corner before ushering you and Varric into the room beyond. "Is there anything else aside from the Breach expanding?"

Will did a cursory sweep of the room, storage by the looks of it, to ensure it was empty, and you did one of your own just to be safe. Call you paranoid. "Yeah. Empress Celene…she was assassinated, and then Orlais was invaded by a demon army." An assassination made sens—

…wait…what…?

"A _demon army_ invaded Orlais?!" you sputtered while Varric blinked, leaned against a wall, and slid down it. "Please tell me I misheard you. You didn't just say _demon_ army, did you?"

He rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly, grimy face pulled into a grimace. "That was the general reaction. It was definitely a demon army, led by the Elder One. Hunker down, this is where we're meeting the others."

You answered a bit dazedly. "I'll stand, thanks. How did this Elder One get a demon army? Better yet, who the blazes _is_ this guy?"

"I don't know," admitted the slave with now small amount of paleness to his face. "I've never seen him myself. Not a lot of people have. But I don't think he's human. At least not anymore." _Not anymore_? You filed _that_ tidbit away for later contemplation.

"What's Alexius' role in all this? Or Ondolemar's?"

Will shrugged. "Puppet? Maste—er, _Alexius_ is, at least, because of his son. The guy who looks like you, though…"

The boy suddenly looked stricken, and you took a few shuffling steps towards him. "What? What about him, Will?" Will's tongue darted out to lick his lips, a nervous gesture, and it was then that you noticed just how…lost he looked.

Varric seemed to notice it, too. "Blue-Eyes?"

"He—" A sudden, loud clanging followed by shouting stopped him before he could reply. From somewhere in his tattered clothes, he drew a rusty dagger and rushed towards a door on the other side of the room without any more prompting, nodding to a crate as he passed it. "Something happened. Your weapons are in there."

"Will!" you hissed, starting after him, but you were too late. The half-elf was already out the door and around the corner before you could take another step. Cursing under your breath about stupid suicidal teenagers, you motioned for Varric to scuttle over to the crate in question. It was one of a stack that looked reasonably defensible, so after fishing Bianca out for the dwarf, you gripped your reacquired daggers and pushed Varric to stay behind cover. You'd wonder how Will had gotten ahold of your weapons along with Solas' staff and Blackwall's shield later.

"Let's hope you haven't forgotten how to use that thing," you mumbled, perching close to the edge and peering around it precariously. Varric flashed you a halfhearted grin as he propped the crossbow's stock to level it, a sign he wasn't too sure about his aim, but was going to fight anyway. You appreciated the gesture as your own hands felt shaky holding the glass and metal pommels.

From down the hallway, there were obvious sounds of a fight, clanging of metal-on-metal, twang of a bow, war-cries. You could taste magic, both hazy, a mark of Aedric blood magic, and the earthy, aged touch you got from Solas. It hurt you to feel on top of the Breach, but some part of sensing a recognizable presence was comforting. It meant he was alive, and if he was alive, there was a good chance Blackwall was as well.

A shriek that you recognized as a terror demon (there had to be a rift nearby, or maybe the veil had just torn that much in the past months) broke the apprehensive calm before the first body, a Venatori foot soldier, stumbled into the room and dropped from an Inquisition knife to the chest. The soldier who had presumably delivered the killing blow followed quickly, torso gutted from wicked sharp claws. From there, utter chaos followed. You couldn't quite pinpoint just when you twirled your way into the fray—before or after Varric fired off his first shot? When the room was empty, or when it was so clustered with fighting bodies that you couldn't breathe without breathing on an enemy? Somewhere in between?

You lost count. A stab at a demon here, dodge a shade there. Twist, step, repeat. Battle was methodical, fluid. It was so much a part of you, this dance; you could never truly forget the steps regardless of how removed you became. Eight months locked in a cell could apparently prove that. Varric seemed much the same, if a little weak from lyrium exposure. Solas' spells felt amplified by the Breach, his staff just as graceful as before in how it swung through the air, and Blackwall's sword arm made up for in vigor what it had atrophied in strength.

Not to say the Venatori were falling easily—they _weren't_ , and that was the problem. You, Varric, Solas, and Blackwall had no armor, neither did Will, and the Inquisition forces seemed worn down and as if they were fighting with second-hand or scavenged gear. The Tevinters on the other hand had shiny, freshly-forged, enchanted armor and blades that gleamed razor-sharp. If you had to guess, some looked Altmeri in style, so Ondolemar and what was left of the Thalmor probably had design input. Which meant that their weapons would be well-balanced, but just ever-so-slightly bottom heavy.

Ever-so-slightly, but bottom heavy enough to be _exploited_.

The grin that split your face with that realization was borderline feral as you went low and darted for a blood mage's knees at the last possible second. It took the man by surprise if his yell was anything to go by, and he dropped to the cracked stone with a _thud!_ A quick flick of your left dagger slit his throat, and the unnamed Tevinter mage died before he really could register what hit him. One of his warrior allies noticed you then and tried swinging, but you used your knowledge of his sword's craftsmanship to your advantage to try twisting out of his way. One precise stab later and he dropped to join his comrade.

It took another few moments for you to register the pain. Fire racing through your veins took a few, sluggish moments to break through the barrier that was your adrenaline, but once it did, there was no denying it. You barely managed to stifle the cry of pain. Releasing your dagger and reaching down instinctively, your fingertips met metal still lodged in your side and covered in warm blood, and your eyes once you remembered to use them confirmed that a dagger you hadn't been aware of had been hacked into your abdomen just below your ribcage. How you missed the Venatori pulling it out of his belt, you would never know. How you let yourself forget you weren't wearing any armor, you would never know.

Finding a half-crumbled writing desk shoved up into a corner, you ducked behind it to nurse your wounds. Healing had always been your strongest skillset when it came to magic, but the magic wouldn't come to you. Between the Inquisition mages casting, the Venatori, and the Breach outpouring energy, you were effectively being stifled.

"Damn it," you moaned, peaking out around the desk only to pull back immediately with a yelp when you narrowly avoided getting a throwing knife to the eye. The rogue that followed it was covered head to toe in spiky, Tevinter style leathers. You could only barely make out his eyes beneath the cowl, a cold, almost soulless brown that glowed with the corruption you were beginning to think had infected everything.

He—or she, you couldn't tell—raised twin blades to strike. Your own dagger came up automatically, but the twinge in your bleeding wound caused most of the strength in the block to dissipate, and the other weapons ended up far too close to your nose for comfort. The Venatori glowered back. The two of you were hidden quite craftily between the desk and the wall. You wondered offhandedly how long it would take the others to notice you were missing. Too long.

' _This is how I die_ ,' you thought. The feeling was…detached. Maybe that was for the best. You certainly hadn't been _detached_ when Nirn was crumbling, and that was shredding. Numb was good. It didn't hurt near as much.

 _SHINK!_ Blood dropped to the floor. For a moment, you felt a pang of satisfaction at realizing you were right—it _didn't_ hurt, but then you noticed the eyes of your attacker again. Wide, glazed. Dead. And the rogue fell to the side in a heap.

Crouched behind your enemy was the vanishing boy from your cell, head tilted curiously and daggers posed from just yanking them out of the Venatori body. His floppy hat was more of a welcome sight than you cared to admit. "Cole?"

He didn't waste time with preamble, kneeling by your side immediately and inspecting the wound in your abdomen. "Sight and slips. You're relying too much on your eyes," he murmured, trance-like. "You don't fight like that anymore."

"What're yo— _OW_! _Son of a…_!" You screeched when, without warning, Cole swiftly grasped the dagger lodged in your skin and yanked it out with one smooth motion. Blood predictably began gushing from the wound.

You hissed through your teeth. "Smooth move! Now I'm going to bleed to death quicker!"

"Not if you focus," he insisted. "You're blocked by the Breach, but you _can_ grasp through the magic."

Accidentally, one of Cole's hands brushed against your arm, and you jolted at the sudden wash of _wrong_. It was amplified, almost. _Shit_ , what was the kid made out of? Pure magic or something? Actually, the idea wasn't half—

" _Focus_." His chiding sliced through your thoughts and re-centered them on the fact that you _were_ going to bleed out if you didn't try to stop it at least. And what an embarrassing fate _that_ would be, wouldn't it? A healer who survived the total dissolution of an entire _world_ only to be done in by a tiny iron dagger and some blood loss? Pathetic.

It took a few tries, the effort painful but also somehow not as daunting as it was five minutes before. Soon enough, the weakest scent of burnt sugar began to emit from the stinging on your right side. A half-assed attempt at fixing it, but it would do for what you needed it to. At least you weren't bleeding out. Peering at the boy next to you, you watched a grin twitch up onto his face for a split second.

"You're welcome." His voice was airy, almost distracted. "Rest." And that was all you remembered as something gripped and pulled you down into the depths of unconsciousness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We have Cole! Kind of! I always was curious as to how Leliana got captured, and her trying to break the IC people who went with the Herald to Redcliffe out of the dungeons seemed like a reasonable way to go about it. Something goes wrong, they all get captured, BAM! Captured Leliana. Yay. Cole being in this was mostly me not being patient enough to wait until Haven to bring him in, so he gets a cameo here and possibly in the next chapter if I can pencil him in there. I love Cole. His speech patterns are so fun to write. So much alliteration. It's wonderful.
> 
> Anyway, I feel like this cuts off rather abruptly, but I couldn't think of any way to continue it without making it ungodly long, so I cut it here. I tried. Again, I was exhausted as I proofread this (probably not my best move), so forgive me for any errors that managed to slip their way past me. I'm sure there are probably a few.
> 
> R&R!  
> ~SurreptitiousFox


	21. AUTHOR'S NOTE--REWRITE PENDING

Well. Hello, everyone.

To be completely honest, this is not something I ever thought I’d be writing up for All Fall Down. I started this fic when I was thirteen, at least the planning, and started writing when I was fifteen. I’m almost twenty now, so the nostalgia is real. AFD is my literary baby. So much of my “career”, if you will, writing fanfiction has involved this little beast—if I had to pick one of my stories that exemplifies everything I am as a writer, it’s probably going to be AFD.

That being said, it’s got plenty of flaws. Flaws that I need to go back and rework. So I’m officially announcing that a rewrite of AFD is in the works. Some things are going to be switched around and changed, but at its core, it is going to be the same fanfic. It’s just that there’s a lot of shit that wasn’t thought through, that was added in haphazardly, and the more I developed where I wanted this story to go, the less those haphazard additions actually fit.

It’s not the end of Lys’ story, but I do want to give everyone who has stuck with her to this point an overwhelming shoutout of thanks. I’ve probably mentioned before that I write for myself, and while that’s true, it brings me joy and confidence that other people do enjoy the works that I create. Your support has made me a better writer, and you all have my gratitude for that.

I’m going to be marking AFD as complete/discontinued and publishing the rewrite as a separate story. The title will be “To Be Fearful of the Night”, and I will post another, final update when I get the prologue and first chapter up. I’m nearing the end of my second year in college, and while I’m busy trying to find a job, perusing grad school options, and trying to keep my academics my top priority, I’m hoping that summer is going to bring me some more time (and inspiration) to write.

Thank you, everyone. Happy reading!

-SurreptitiousFox


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